sTeLLaR

Y/N had found a strange thrill in riling him up, often giving him the exact dates and times of her upcoming robberies at the most random moments of their encounters near their building. She seemed to find this hilarious, especially because she managed to lead the NYPD on wild goose chases for weeks. When he had asked if this was just her twisted way of trying to get to know him, she had simply shrugged and told him not to keep her waiting—a command he routinely obeyed. Who was he to refuse such an intimate opportunity to be close to her, in a setting that gave him the chance to hide his awkward regular-guy persona?

This was why, on a Friday night he was supposed to stay in to fix a water leak in his bathroom, he flung his webs across town to reach the Metropolitan Museum. That night, the object of her desire was a gemstone of an ancient South Asian dynasty, lent for a commemorative exhibition.

Y/N was standing cross-armed in the room, busy scrutinising the protective glass between her and the jewel. She barely looked up nor flinched at the sound of soft boots landing on the floor behind her, signalling her neighbour’s arrival.

'Ten more minutes and you would’ve missed me tonight,' she spoke, her voice echoing in the vast, quiet hall. 'What took you so long?'

'The leakage from upstairs finally reached my flat,' Jungkook sighed, adjusting the wrists of his suit. 'Had to patch up some spots before coming.'

Y/N abruptly turned her head at his explanation, her face filled with confusion. 'No way. I thought the landlord went to Mrs Carmona's to get it fixed already!'

A bizarre sense of normalcy settled into the room, as if they had just run into each other on a warm morning by their front doors.

'Turns out the issue was bigger than he thought,' Jungkook said, crossing his arms. 'But don’t act like you’re actually worried about the building when you’re busy trying to rob this place.'

She shot a disapproving glare at him. 'Hey, I’m just as worried about the condition of our building as you are. I also planned on being quick and efficient tonight, but security had to fuck up my plan by upgrading this protective glass.' An exasperated Y/N uncrossed her arms to point at the casing of the gemstone, huffing at all the hard reconnaissance work she had done weeks ago that was now rendered useless. 'So much for being discreet.'

It was now the superhero’s turn to be confused. ‘Discreet? The entire NYPD has been trying to hunt you down for weeks. You’re anything but discreet, and they’re going to get you one way or another,’ Jungkook countered, carefully stepping closer to close the distance between them.

‘Please, these cops are about as good as Chief Wiggum on his best days,’ she scoffed. ‘And even when I don’t tell you where I’m going to be, you keep showing up and turning these chill nights into Olympic races,’ she corrected, pointing a gloved finger at him.

‘Because you’re breaking the law, and I’m a superhero, remember? This isn’t a game, even if you keep treating it like one by stealing all these things and hiding them in your pantry like they’re just random toys,’ Jungkook argued. He unconsciously closed the distance between them, his voice dropping to a serious, firm tone. He needed to remind her—and perhaps himself—that he had a job to do. ‘So, for the sake of both our time, step away from that stone and I might let you walk away.’

The thief now wore a broad grin at their newfound proximity, her sparkling eyes boring into his lenses with wicked delight. ‘You know I can’t do that, Spider. Coming all the way here just to back down at a tiny hurdle is not my style.’

‘You’re going to get yourself thrown in a cage just to keep your ego intact?’ he muttered, in disbelief at her recklessness.

She shook her head, her grin still showing. ‘I just hate running away from a challenge,’ she purred, taking tiny steps backward without breaking eye contact.

Before he could respond, Y/N gave an energetic kick to the jewel’s pedestal, freeing the shiny stone from its glass prison. Instantly, a high-pitched alarm began ringing all around the museum. Although it completely foiled her attempt to draw as little attention as possible, her only solution now was to make a run for it before anyone reached the scene. He swiftly tried to shoot a web at the jewel on the ground to grab it before she could, but she was astute enough to kick it out of his aim. The sudden action used his own powers against him, pulling him off balance.

Slightly stunned after his head collided with the floor, he had only a few moments to watch her tuck the jewel into a little satin bag and head towards the nearest window. Perched on the ledge, she looked down at him one last time with a childish grin.

‘See you next time, Spidey! Gotta take care of that leak!’ she waved, before disappearing between the many skyscrapers of New York.

_

Their snappy interactions when both of their suits hid their real selves were a stark contrast to the rapport—for lack of a better word—they had built over time in broad daylight, when everybody was watching.

Jungkook was just done wrapping his mind around it all when he was put straight to the test at a neighbour's housewarming party a few days later, on a bright Sunday afternoon. There was no need to worry about whether he looked brave enough to scare her a minimum for him, and no security system to figure out in a ridiculously small time frame for her. It was just them, making small talk with the other clueless neighbours and sitting around a table before the beginning of a card game of which he barely understood the rules.

After the first round ended and some rules were switched to start a new one, Jungkook stepped out onto the terrace to get some fresh air. There, he found Y/N sitting in a hidden corner, arms crossed over the ledge as she peacefully watched all the pedestrians enjoying their little strolls.

‘Hannah is so cool,’ she said, focusing her attention a young couple fetching a toy for their baby from the lower compartment of their stroller.

‘She is. I’m pretty sure she only invited us to bribe someone into moving the couch she’s getting delivered next week,’ Jungkook replied, leaning against the railing a few feet away from her, trying to act casual despite his racing heart. ‘But the food makes up for it.’

His heart bloomed at the soft chuckle he managed to draw out of her, ‘Yeah, that’s also the first time a neighbour throws a housewarming party so she gets a pass.’ Y/N pointed out. A comfortable silence permeated the air before she continued, ‘I initially wanted to do one for my own apartment, but I have very expensive things to hide in my pantry.’ She turned her head towards him, wiggling her brows with a mischievous grin. Jungkook rolled his eyes and let out a heavy, defeated sigh at her joke. He was utterly exhausted by the constant reminders of the messy situation he had willingly put himself in with her.

'Don't be so tense around me. You know I don't bite.'

'Everything you go after is currently tracked by every agency in the world,' Jungkook whispered, checking over his shoulder to ensure the other guests were still inside. 'You could never sell these on the black market without them tracking you down.'

'Who said anything about selling them? I know they won't go anywhere.' She stood up from her seat, fully giving her attention to him.

‘Honestly, the only thing I enjoy in this double-life thingy is how I get to improve my technique and escape plans after each night. Pretty satisfying if you ask me.’

Jungkook chose not to comment on the underlying confession, but he was deeply intrigued by it. ‘Normal people would just take up pottery or crocheting to improve their technique. They don't actively risk federal prison.’ he countered with a harder tone, his eyes trying to find any semblance of remorse in hers. As expected, he only found a softer version of the glimmer she had when she went after that Asian jewel.

Y/N let out a soft, melodic laugh that sent a strange warmth through his chest. 'I already tried crocheting once, wasn’t fun enough for me. Plus, stealing stuff is a more active way to make good use of my hands.'

She patted his shoulder playfully before leaving him by himself on the balcony to ponder.

Weeks went on with their odd but familiar dynamic after that. When they were not fighting, Jungkook got used to hearing the constant hum of her TV playing the same YouTube channels on weekends, while Y/N was blessed with his impromptu karaoke sessions at almost any given hour of the night. He was no superstar, but the man could hold a note, and she had almost told him once that he had gotten way better since the very first days she moved in. Their daily conversations in the elevator when other neighbours were there, mixed with the midnight chases completely blurred the lines of duty and quality time spent together. At the end of the day, Jungkook found himself growing genuinely fond of her and her antics—realising with a sinking heart that he was no longer just tracking a target, but falling for his neighbour. And as fucked up as it was, he was dying to know if their many nights of banter behind their respective other identities and impromptu errands ran at the shop together helped her feel the same.

_

The next time Y/N extended an invite to him for her upcoming heist was at the Brooklyn Museum. The moonlight streaming through the grand glass ceiling casted a soft glow over the exhibits, bringing a strange sense of intimacy to the bizarre circumstances. The webslinger didn’t have much detail on what to expect tonight, but had followed her orders nonetheless. He actively avoided asking himself if he was only caving to her mind games because he wanted to enjoy the time spent with her the only way she allowed him to, or if he wanted to make sure she stays out of trouble while already putting herself at risk. Either way, both were wrong motives and he unfortunately knew it.

He snuck into the museum and padded quietly through the shadows as he waited for signs of her arrival. Carefully inspecting the room, he caught the faint sound of her heels clicking on the marble floor behind him. There she was.

'Boo.' she whispered close to his ear, her sudden proximity sending a light shiver down his spine.

'I heard you walk in.'

Y/N fake-pouted and sashayed past him, her shoulder deliberately brushing his along the way. 'Does your spidey-sense make it absolutely impossible for you to be caught off guard?'

'My spidey-sense works for serious situations only,' Jungkook replied, turning around to follow her alluring silhouette. 'And like I said, I literally heard your heels on the floor.'

'Ouch. Ruin my fun, why don't you?' She sighed, leaning her hip against a pillar.

Jungkook didn't let the silence simmer for too long. He was aggravated enough at his undeniable attraction to her as it was, and wanted to wrap up this umpteenth round of the game she kept playing with him. 'Well, this room's empty.' he stated, letting his arms fall on his sides at the vastness of the room they were engulfed in in the middle of the night. 'I'm sure you have better things to do than to request my presence if it's not for something important.' He aimlessly played with the cuff of his suit, realising he found it harder and harder to look her in the eyes while speaking. Every minute spent leaning into her playful antics was another minute his resolve was close to crumbling for good, making him forget which side of the law he was supposed to be standing on.

'What are you going after this time, Y/N?'

She was surprised by his firmer attitude, but found it endearing.

'Don't think so low of yourself, I actually enjoy our little escapades together.' she gleefully admitted, digging his grave even deeper. 'But if you want to go straight to business, let me show you.' She made a come hither motion with her fingers and started her deliberate strut towards another area of the museum.

He carefully analysed the gallery she guided him into, walls elegantly decorated with what looked like golden stripes faintly showing between dozens of different-sized paintings hung on the walls. When she reached the center, Y/N twirled on herself before throwing her arms wide to present the room to him like she arranged everything herself.

'Welcome to the Time Machine exhibition.' she announced, voice echoing at the vast unoccupied space. 'Big shots from all across the globe wanted to create the most impressive art experience for history retelling, and they all agreed to plan it here.'

She paused before sharing more of the background of the exhibition. 'Basically, they want to show how gruesome the genocide of Native Americans as well as the Atlantic slave trade and everything that followed was, to make sure none of this happen again.' The sarcasm in her tone was clear as day, 'which is a bit funny considering, well… the world we live in.'

Jungkook mentally approved of her words and kept admiring the room. Some paintings hidden behind heavy canvas covers leaving his imagination wild, others proudly displayed for future visitors to see.

It was an impressive collection of fierce history caught in oil and fiercely saturated colour palettes, paying respects to the courageous victims of what was the worst of Western colonialism. All the uncovered canvases depicted the brutal, chaotic clashes with Europeans, but also vibrant indigenous celebrations and the rich, intimate rhythms of their daily lives before the world they once knew collapsed.

Some also portrayed former slaves thriving in the very environments into which they had been cruelly forced after the Atlantic trade. Although the backstory was nothing but depressing, the artists aimed to capture moments of community and solace amongst each other at their newfound freedom, even in the absolute thick of chaos and generational grief this had caused.

Each figure created on the canvases possessed incredibly vivid, sharp facial expressions, striking, and deeply expressive to convey the monumental historical weight of what was pictured. Each piece was magnificent, bursting with singular, deeply personal stories that felt vital to keep the heritage of ancestors unspoiled.

Everything deemed to be "ancient" art was not his forte, but he still could objectively appreciate how some paintings still felt vividly alive after centuries. The freshness of the air contrasted with the weight of the ancient history surrounding them, only added to the experience. He wished he could have taken her on a date in a museum with a brighter thematic and in a way better circumstance, but this illegal rendezvous would have to act as a substitute until they (she) finally defined whatever their relationship was.

He only noticed she was far from him when Y/N failed to respond to his quiet whisper about how cool the room looked despite his lack of art knowledge, and saw her standing still in front of one of the largest canvases.

He went to stand next to her smaller frame, not fully noticing how enthralled Y/N was. Unbeknownst to him, the work in front of them had her feeling jittery, all the colors and heavy energy the painting shaking her to the core.

The canvas illustrated what looked like a family of four, standing at the very top of a hill with nothing but spears to defend themselves compared to the long, foreign, metallic guns the attackers pointed at them. Even in the dark, you could make out in their faces the panic and horrifying realisation that no matter how desperately they stood up against the enemy, they were about to meet a tragic end.

'See that one?' Y/N chinned toward the painting above them, getting her neighbour's attention, 'It belonged to a tiny indigenous tribe of the Caribbean, the Kueyu. They thrived for centuries on the archipelago now called Saint Theodore before the Spanish crown came over and killed almost all of its inhabitants. Back in the 1930s when an anticolonialism movement started in some areas of the Americas, a painter named Luann Beckett recreated this historically accurate event of one of the last families that fought for their survival before getting executed.'

He took some time to contemplate the painting with deep concentration. He was fully aware of the wide range of emotions with which this work was soaked up — both by the story of the artist and for those who had unfortunately known the immense sorrow of being torn from their native land. The pain, dismay, grief, and anxiety... it would never fully encompass the true anguish the family depicted in this painting went through, but he could totally imagine how colossal that sacrifice must have been.

'That painting was stolen from her descendants after her passing and miraculously found thirteen years ago. They didn't find any of her direct lineage in the country so they consider it property of the museum until someone related to her shows up. This is why it's here now, displaying it like it's theirs to show off.' Y/N tsk'ed, visibly annoyed at the turn of events.

'I always thought us Asians had a hard time dealing with American imperialism, but this actually is so much worse in the Caribbeans.'

'The islands being located right under the U.S.A make it difficult for them to fully gain their independence and resist Western oppression. I can’t recall one resistance movement that actually worked and totally left said country alone until now.'

'Does the Dominican Republic count?' he pondered out loud, 'They seem pretty well off.'

'Meh, they’ve been invaded by Spain twice and I'm not a fan of how xenophobia is basically institutionalised.'

A comfortable silence ensued, both joining different trains of thought and basking in the intensity that art piece emanated.

'Don't you think it's too big to fit into your stash back home though? If your flat is designed like mine, you're probably running out of space.' Jungkook wondered while pointing at the art piece, hell-bent on the idea that all her stolen goods were hidden in a tiny closet of her apartment when she never confirmed or denied his theory. She didn't bother to correct him on it and only scoffed, but it was not as lightweight as it usually was with her.

'This one's not staying with me.' He rapidly blinked and brows furrowed at the sudden solemnity of her statement. 'I’m just correcting a historical error. This painting is going to go right back where it belongs.' she said with no trace of her usual mischief.

‘Going back where, exactly?’ Another silence. But ten times heavier than the previous one.

He turned his body completely to face her as she kept her eyes on the prize, seemingly lost in her inner turmoil. ‘Look, if you gonna get involved in something riskier tha—‘

'Don’t worry about it.' She cut him off a little too quickly. He was stunned to get a glimpse at what looked like a more vulnerable version of his neighbor, a usually flirtatious and carefree woman now showing a rather determined and intense gaze behind her feline-masked face.

Y/N briefly realised she had shown too much and forced a quick, deflecting assertiveness to get the ball back on her court. 'As I've always shown you, I'm not a damsel in distress.' she reminded him —and herself after this little slip-up. 'Tonight's heist might have a symbolic significance, but I'm perfectly capable of handling myself.'

And now, they were eyeing each other for far too long for her liking. Scrambling to break the heavy seriousness their conversation had just created, she mentally flipped through the pages of her favourite imaginary book titled ‘Masking Vulnerability 101’ to change the subject.

'I genuinely thought you were more into art, but I’m glad you enjoy this kind of art movement nonetheless.' Jungkook saw her offering him a soft but honest smile, kind of glad to gradually get her usual radiant energy back.

'I don’t know,' he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders. 'I’ve been raised to be more of a comic-book guy, but I know good stuff when I see them.'

She giggled, his confession not even surprising her one bit, 'From being a comic-book guy to a vigilante protecting the neighborhood from pesky criminals like me and supervillains? What an inspiring success story.’

He bit back a smile under his mask before opening his mouth to say something else—perhaps to insist on knowing what this painting actually meant to her on a more personal level—but the words died in his throat.

An intense knot suddenly settled in the pit of his stomach, accompanied by the tightening of his muscles for a millisecond throughout his entire body. The familiar but unwanted buzz ringing in his ears followed suit, taking over his other senses by blurring his ability to focus on anything else than the violent urge to act quickly on the incoming threat… which was apparently coming from above.

He straightened up instantly and got closer to her, reclaiming his heroic, combat-ready stance. 'Don’t make a sound.’ Jungkook hissed, lenses of his facemask squinting dangerously.

It was now Y/N’s soft face’s turn to frown, taken aback by the radical change of demeanour, ‘What are you on ab—‘

A police squad crushed the glass ceiling that overlooked the two of them, forcing Jungkook to lunge forward and push her out of the way. His entire body rolled across the floor, just as a heavy chunk of the ceiling collapsed right where she had been standing. 'NYPD! Freeze!' authoritative voices boomed through tactical masks, loud and clear even over the rhythmic wail of a silent alarm that had suddenly gone live.

And to make matters worse, more units kept rappelling down to position themselves at every exit, targeting her with blinding spotlights and instantly cutting down Y/N’s chances of escape.

Jungkook scrambled to his feet and saw her eyes go wide at the sudden intrusion. He took one look at the tactical team flooding the lower level and the major exits, turning the museum into a tightly locked fortress.

The moment she regained her footing, Y/N scanned the room with calculated precision and in the blink of an eye, bolted for her life towards a tiny unguarded door she had previously noted as an emergency exit. She wasn't used to getting caught red-handed, but a life spent in the shadows always carried such a lingering risk, so the ambush wasn’t a total surprise. Her flight instinct forced her to tune out the blaring sirens and the shouting guards running after her, leaving her entirely focused on the rhythm of her legs and finding secure footing on any surface she deemed safe enough to land on.

While trying to lose the police by switching heights in her frantic escape, a misjudged leap over a massive gap between buildings made her feet miss the targeted ledge. And for what felt like eternity, she was falling from a four-floor building, eyes closed as if it would help her brace for the brutal impact on the asphalt— But the impact never came; instead, a warm, powerful grip locked securely around her waist.

Before fully registering why her bones and muscles haven’t been blown to bits, she was suddenly launched back up into the sky, the wind loudly whistling in her ears against a never-ending, tilting city skyline.

A sharp gasp left her feeling even dizzier from the lack of air at the highest altitude she had ever seen in her life. 'What the—?!' She looked up, finally noticing the red and blue suit belonging to none other than Jungkook, swinging the both of them to God-knows-where. 'Spidey, what the fuck?! Where are you taking me?'

'If you don’t want to spend the rest of your life in jail, you better wrap your arms around my neck and shut up until we’re both safe!' Jungkook yelled over the rushing wind, firing another web-line toward the next building in his line of sight.

Y/N had no choice but to obey, grabbing his well-sculpted torso with all her might as he leapt from one robust structure to another. She was not sure where to look so as not to disturb her inner ear's balance more than it already was. All she could do was force herself to focus on breathing somewhat properly, while trusting the man holding her to bring the both of them to safety.

Their escape from the police finally ended at a deserted construction site, Jungkook using his body to roll them across the dusty concrete floor for several meters before finally grinding to a halt.

He landed heavily on top of her, head resting right against her chest violently heaving from the sudden exertion and rush of adrenaline. He hurriedly lifted his head when noticing the position he was in, yanking his mask off to breathe some cool night air—completely forgetting in his blurred mind that it would leave his flushed face entirely exposed to her.

Now that the aggressive sirens and shouting had faded into the background noise of the city, they just stared at each other. They were both way too aware of their bodies glued together, erratic breathing, and the abnormal thumping of their hearts.

Jungkook scrambled off her, rolling onto his side with a pained groan before pushing himself up, back and shoulders aching from the hard landing. Y/N dusted off her leather suit right after as she got back on her feet, eyes lingering on his uncovered face with a completely new, unreadable expression. 'Thanks…' she exhaled, head still spinning from all the acrobatics she experienced. Lost for words, Jungkook just gave a tight nod, trying to his breath as he pulled his mask back over his face, hiding himself once more.

Dying to flee from the onslaught of confusing emotions, he mentally shook his head to get it together. ‘Wait here for another thirty minutes before going back home.’, he instructed her, voice now lower and muffled by the fabric.

‘And where are you going?’

‘To check if we actually lost the cops.’

Seeing him walking away, Y/N seized the last occasion she had tonight to hesitantly ask him for a "ride" after he was done with them.

'Don't push your luck,' he warned her. Without another word, he fired a web toward the upper buildings and fled into the night, leaving her standing there completely dumbfounded.

'But we live in the same building!' she called out to the quiet air, her saviour long gone in between the shadows of the city.

His silhouette finally gone from her line of sight, another big deep breath escaped her chest. Standing alone in the dark, she realised the web she had got caught in was going to be much harder to detangle herself from than she thought.

It was almost eleven p.m, and Jungkook was waiting for her in the most secluded booth available at the diner, his mind wandering. While it was indeed a good idea to be in a public place in case she tried something against him, the familiar setting of the very restaurant he often sat at to satisfy his greasy food cravings didn't help much to ease his nerves. The poor guy’s leg kept bouncing like crazy under the table at the idea of sitting in front of the girl he helplessly wanted to get to know before he found out she was a thief. 

How could someone as sweet and kind as Y/N, his cute neighbor and long-time crush ever since she moved in the building, could simultaneously live the life of an outlaw? The irony was not lost on him, considering he was also the complete opposite of his Mr Average persona working for a tabloid newspaper since that radioactive spider bit him years ago.

Overall, Jungkook and Y/N's interactions mostly happened when they ran into each other in their elevator on the way to or coming back from work, but also in the laundromat around the corner. Her clean loads always had the most addictive smell, to which she'd always say it's only "some cheap fabric softener samples some clerk gave me" after getting her groceries. And yet, he swore that aroma had that little something else laced when she was the one using it.

While he was busy basking in the memory of her smile after he told her she smelled heavenly, the distant sound of the bell above the doorframe had him turn his head towards the entrance, where he saw her walk in.

Y/N appeared like nothing but her usual self, his favorite neighbor, when she closed the door behind her and thoroughly scanned the room to find where he was seated. Her upper body was engulfed in the extra large navy blue hoodie he often saw her wearing when they met in their hallway, and he caught himself wishing they sat in this booth for more romantic reasons (maybe even with her wearing his hoodies instead). He abruptly shook his head to get his mind out of it, but if he played his cards right tonight, his daydream could happen soon anyway.

« Hey. » She greeted him in the same honeyed voice he was so used to hearing, a whiff of that damn citrus fruit permeating the air the second she sat in front of him.

« Hey. » Jungkook shot back with a tight-lipped smile, trying to calm his heart rate that slowly picked up when she walked towards him. He quickly noticed a drastic difference of energy at the table. While he had been rehearsing every single thing he could say to her ever since they found each other's secret identity, she appeared very collected. Hell, she even asked him if he ate before coming before ordering two strawberry shakes with some fries from the waitress... who ended up complimenting her manicure and asked where she got it from. 

Jungkook watched them squeal over whatever girls find great about nail techs, in utter confusion. She was so whimsy, so bubbly… Was it really the same person that knocked down a whole crew of police officers at the Natural History Museum?

After getting their (her?) order, Y/N slid one of the shakes towards him and took several sips of hers, savoring the taste she probably have craved all day. They pretty much stayed there in silence after she ran out of small talk options, drinking the cold beverage before he psyched himself up to get this awkwardness over with. 

Y/N lifted her head when she heard him loudly clear his throat. « So? » she pursed her lips and waited for him to start the discussion he was hellbent on having.

« You have to stop robbing these museums. »

Y/N didn't even try to suppress her snort. « Are you always this nice to all these criminals you fight with? » she asked, genuinely amused.

« I'm dead serious Y/N— look, » he straightened his back and unconsciously puffed his chest in the process, putting on the big guy persona in action… Not so easy to show off his usual bravado when his face is not behind that mask.

« I wanna go on about this the "civilized" way because this is the first time I'm in this type of situation. » She cocked her head to the side, waiting to see where this little speech was going. Jungkook stared dead in her eyes before beginning, « I like you a lot. »

… That had way more meaning than initially intended. 

The second of silence that stretched right after felt like eternity, and he blurted whatever came up in his mind to tone down the seriousness of this involuntary confession. « I- I mean as a person, a-and a neighbor! ». His cheeks felt hot when he noticed her eyes beaming. Ugh, that Freudian slip or whatever that was will cost him a lot during their next encounters.

Y/N put her chin in her hands and tried to fight a playful smile at his rambling, making it even more troublesome for him to act like his superhero-self. « I have no issues with you as my neighbor, but whenever I have my suit on I have to be on the side of the law. »

« I’m not as ill-intentioned as you think I am. » she plainly stated, picking on a lukewarm fry.

It was Jungkook's turn to openly scoff at her. « Honestly? It's very hard to tell when you keep knocking out these guards and police officers. »

Y/N slouched back on her seat at the recollection of the officers who had fallen for her very predictable jabs before she ran away, eyes rolling to the back of her head. « Please, these idiots barely do their job anyway, no wonder why I get away with all this shit so easily. » Y/N swallowed before arguing further. 

« Also, remember that guy who tried to rob Fresh Bitez the night I took a painting at the Bronx Museum? You're so lucky cops only noticed the robbery the day after, like-- it left me all the time needed to knock that guy down myself. » she smirked after her little anecdote, « I kinda did you a favor here 'cause you would've arrived there too late. »

Jungkook had a hard time understanding her twisted logic (she also had a point about the lack of effort the NYPD has been delivering for the city, but he wasn't going to admit it out loud). 

« Are you even taking our discussion seriously? » 

« I am, I'm just very goofy and I like messing with you in the process. » she confessed with a cat-like grin.

Jungkook groaned in frustration, his energy depleting when he realized his poor attempts at reasoning with her were failing miserably. « I should've thrown you and that guy helping you to the police when I had the chance, 'cause this is getting nowhere. »

« What guy? I got out of that alley by myself. » she went back to that nonchalant stance, lying through her teeth. Had he not been there to witness everything himself, he probably would have believed her without any further question. As infatuated as he was, he wasn't going to let her get away with any lies tonight and if he failed to convince her to stop her illegal activities, he was at least going to get all the information he could use to prevent her next heists.

« I'm not talking about that night. Cops always think you're doing everything yourself, but there's someone else helping you out. I saw you talking to each other after you went for a sculpture in the Museum of Modern Art. » he recalled, her eyes briefly widening at the amount of detail he shared.

Jungkook was referring to a lean masked man he saw her have a rather tense conversation with, after they went for an artifact lent by the Louvre for an exhibition. Jungkook managed to crawl onto the wall of a nearby building to spy on their conversation after the police failed to arrest them, hoping to make a move at the perfect time. The woman’s body language wasn't particularly exuding warmth towards the guy, a mental note he kept in mind as years of being the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man taught him criminals are easier to apprehend when they only seem to be coworkers rather than friends outside their criminal hours. A sound coming from around him killed the momentum he was building to neutralize them, and by the time he got his focus back, they were both gone, probably surprised by the random noise as well. He cursed himself for not acting sooner, but since their crimes so far were not essentially targeting civilians, he figured they were not a threat for now.

« Ohhhh, that guy. » she feigned remembrance after swallowing another damn fry. « I actually met him recently, he said he also had… things to steal in these museums too or something, » she talked about her point of view of the encounter with her partner in crime like she was updating one of her girl friends about a date she had the other week. « He was like « we could definitely help each other out. My powers can come in handy. » blah blah. »

She frowned and pouted before going on, « He was right about being helpful, but he's a bit intense y'know? Like, he always ends up taking unnecessary risks and I hate that. »

By the looks of it, she did not care much about him and merely considered him as a coworker. Was it fucked up for him to feel some kind of relief? Probably, but he was too far gone to care.

« When I do these heists myself I get in, do my lil' burglar thing, and get out. No fuss, no muss. » she explained, mimicking a stickman walking to the left on the table, running away to the right with her fingers.

Jungkook couldn't wrap his head around any reason why she robbed these museums in the first place. Unlike the other villains he fought, she didn't seem to have that life-altering trauma that made her vow to herself she'd pursue a life of crime, or get revenge on someone, or even a need to get rich. All the stuff she kept robbing couldn't be sold on the black market anyway, and no one would risk depositing them for money. And even if she found a way to do it, she still had a regular office job she was fine with and lived in that barely above-average building like he did.

« Why are you going through all this trouble if it's not even for fame or money? »

« You don't know how hard I wish I could sell these bad boys on the market so I could buy a house on a private island and never come back. And fame? » she gasped, almost offended at the idea he could see her being like that, « Believe it or not, I don't like the attention. » 

« You sure do love a theatrical exit with these artifacts when all these spotlights are on you. Y/N really, why are you doing this? »

« Okay, look. » The atmosphere took a weird shift when Y/N cleared her throat and straightened her back, before leaning her chest forward as if to let her favorite neighbor in on a secret. Her eyes and tone softened, but her assertiveness remained. « I know what I'm doing is wrong, but my goal has never been to hurt people and it'll never be. All the casualties that happened lately were not in my plan, and I'm glad you and emergency are always around to help when needed. I would gladly stay and help them myself cause I do feel bad about it most of the time, but y'know…» she lightly shrugs, « can't risk staying around if you don't want to get arrested. » 

Jungkook let her words sink in, and her change of attitude matched the Y/N he was used to seeing in their hallway. No jokes, no mischief, just honesty. Sure, she definitely was an iceberg of secrets which he could only see the tip of, but he chose to trust his gut (or spider sense) about her for now.

« What I’m trY/Na say is, I won’t stop my heists anytime soon, but try not to worry your little brain too much on this, okay? » He barely had time to let his soft spot for her bloom even more in his chest when she patted her soft hand on his as a reassuring gesture. « From now on I’ll be even more careful not to make a mess. »

Before breaking contact, she gently rubbed her palm on his to slide something in it, and Jungkook's face dropped when he realized the rather small and crumbled texture in his hand was of a twenty dollar bill. 

« Shakes and fries are on me. See you around! »

Her citrusy smell vanished after she grabbed her purse and casually exited the diner, leaving him unsure of what to think in front of his barely touched shake and the rest of her fries. All in all, this whole conversation did a poor job at deterring her from stealing precious stuff and he managed to lose all the aura he thought he had, but it could've been worse… right?

part 2

Eden wasn't one to go out often, but every once in a while Sunhi could convince her to throw on a cute outfit and hit the town. On those nights, Eden became the designated everything.

Designated bag holder.

Designated cab caller.

Designated babysitter.

Because lord knows, the both of them drunk off their asses would do them no good.

Another groan came from Sunhi. They were for sure gonna have a long talk about drinking responsibly in the morning.

The banging on the door continued. 

Eden's body was moving before her brain could even process her actions. The culprit on the other side of the stall almost falling on her ass at the force of Eden yanking the door open. 

"Do you not hear her throwing up in here bitch?!"

Okay...maybe she was a little more tipsy than she thought.

"Y-you're holding up the line! There's only three stalls," she stuttered. "You should be more considerate."

Eden stared at the girl like she had three heads. Be more considerate??? 

"Would you rather her throw up on them dirty ass shoes you have on? I'm confused??? Should I get her to aim at them?" She tapped Sunhi's shoulder. "Sunhi babe don't aim for the toilet, she wants it all over here."

A few gasps and snickers could be heard from the line.

Face red, the girl huffed and rushed out of the bathroom muttering curses under her breath.

Eden turned to the rest of the line, "Anybody else have something to say?"

Suddenly, everyone found the floor interesting. 

"That's what I thought," she muttered, closing the stall.

Sunhi, finally done, looked up at her smiling. "I am so proud of youuuuu," she slurred, head bobbing back and forth. "You stuck up for me! You love me!"

Sunhi was going to be the death of her.

Eden reached down to pull her up, "Alright girl. Time to get you home."

Stumbling into the apartment Eden dropped Sunhi on the couch. Tired wasn't even the word right now. She felt like she needed one of her own cuddle sessions the way her knees threatened to buckle from exhaustion.

Forcing herself up, she trudged to the kitchen in search of water bottles and medicine for Sun's definite headache in the morning. She glanced at the time on the microwave. 2:13 AM. They were going to regret this so bad tomorrow. 

She found what she needed and traveled back to the living room. Sun hadn't moved an inch since she was thrown on the couch, dead to the world. Rolling her eyes, Eden grabbed the blanket they kept on the back of the couch and draped it over the girl. Sunhi curling into it on immediate contact. 

Eden checked to make sure the front door was locked before she made her way to her room. The sight of her bed almost bringing her to her knees. It was just what she needed.

Quickly, she stripped her club outfit and did a half ass night time routine, one of Sunhi's moomoos her outfit of choice for the night. She fell face first onto her pillow and drifted off into a deep sleep, neglecting all else. 

Morning came quick. The sound of birds chirping and the harsh glare of the sun through her curtains bringing her back from the land of the dead. She reached over to her bedside table for her phone, curious of the time only to come up empty handed.

Confused, she sat up and looked around. Where the hell did she put her phone? Shuffling around she looked in the sheets, under her pillows, even the side of her mattress, and came up with nothing. Weird.

In the distance she could hear Sun moaning out complaints.

Eden wrapped a blanket around herself to fight against the cold air before she shuffled to the living room. Sun was hanging half way off the couch, arm covering her eyes, a look of pain on her face.

"Ughhhhhhh I'm never drinking again."

"Exactly what you get," she muttered, lowering herself to the floor by the girl's head.

"Don't lecture me right now."

"You're lucky that's all I have to say right now cause the way you were throwing up last night I should definitely be on your ass."

Sunhi's hand found Eden's lips, "Hush now child."

She swiped the girl's hand away, "Have you seen my phone?"

"Nope, but you can track it on my phone. I think it's in my boot."

Too lazy to stand, Eden rolled over to the girl's boot and retrieved the phone. All hope she had crushed when she saw the location of her's. 

Hongdae.

"What the fawkkkk," she complained.

How the hell did she leave her phone at the club?!

"That doesn't sound good."

She shot a glare at Sunhi, "This is all your fault. Now I have to go back to that shitty club and get my phone."

"Blaming little old me is insane. You can't be mad at the ill."

Eden rolled her eyes. She wasn't actually mad at her friend, just irritated she had to go back to the damn club.

She looked at the time.

11:47 AM

"OH MY GOD!"

She had a shift at Far Ben in an hour.

Phone long forgotten, Eden rushed to her room. Hara would kill her if she was late. When Eden heard her coworker needed someone to cover the later half of her shift, she jumped at the opportunity. Now, she regretted all of her life choices.

She got to Far Ben with two minutes to spare. The familiar smell of coffee beans and fresh pastries hitting her nose immediately. Behind the counter, Hara's shoulders visibly relaxed. Without a second thought she clocked in and slid behind the counter. The afternoon rush was starting soon, and she knew the girl was eager to leave.

"Thank you so much Eden. I owe you!"

She waved the girl"No problem Hara. I hope your appointment goes well."

The afternoon rush hit like a tsunami. Customers running in and out. BTS fangirls popping in. Mobile orders coming through every two seconds. It was a lot, but the team moved in sync easing the stress for everyone. By the time six o'clock rolled around Eden was dead tired. The adrenaline of the rush wearing off.

It seemed like all the hours of sleep she missed was hitting her all at once. And not having her phone made it worse. She had no kind of stimulation to keep her mind going. 

Resting her head into her arms on the table she ignored the ring of the door, too tired and far away to greet anyone. Her eyelids threatened to close - the calm chaos of the cafe lulling her to sleep.

She felt the table move - probably just Juhoon coming to take his break too. They always hid away at this table on their breaks.

"You've been ignoring me."

Every muscle in her body went stiff.

Lifting up slowly, she came face to face with Namjoon. Mask resting beneath his chin. Jaw tight. A piercing look in his eyes that immediately told her he was annoyed.

Maybe even worried?

"How did you know I was here?"

"Don't ask dumb questions," he scoffed. "Why haven't you responded to me?"

Her brows furrowed. She was too tired for his shit today.

"What were you going to do," he continued. "Take the money and disappear?"

Eden just stared at him, then dropped her head back onto her arms.

"Here you go being an asshole again."

"What do you expect me to think Eden? I send you all that money and I haven't gotten a response since."

Silence.

"Eden."

Still nothing.

"Can you say something? Like what the fuck. Are we children?"

The condescending tone of his voice set her off.

"First of all nobody is ignoring you, and even if I was, you aren't entitled to a response. Second, I lost my god damn phone in Hongdae so NOBODY has been able to get ahold of me."

She leaned forward. "If you're going to sit here and be an asshole and accuse me of shit, you can leave. I'm not in the mood."

The man in front of her sat speechless, a dumb look on his face. She didn't mean to snap at him like that, but this assuming the worst of her bullshit was starting to get on her nerves. Right along with his bipolar attitude.

"I apologize."

She rolled her eyes.

"What are you doing here Namjoon?"

His gaze held her's a little too long.

"I wanted to see you."

Eden didn't know if she should be concerned or flattered. If this was any other client she probably would have reported them to the police by now. 

Randomly showing up to her place of work, causing arguments like he's her man, the way he touches her...all things that cross the line. Yet the only thing that crossed her mind when the words spilled from his mouth was how much she missed the feeling of his body on her's. 

Platonically of course.

"You know this is borderline harassment right?" she asked, head cocked to the side.

A small smile tugged at his mouth, "Arrest me."

"Yeah let me just get my cuffs from the back."

His smile grew wider, dimples on full display. "You into that?"

She looked down at her watch flustered. She only had five minutes left of her break.

"I have to go back soon. Are you going to continue being a weirdo stalker or tell me why you're really here?"

He started to play with her fingers that rested on the table, "I told you already. You were ignoring my messages."

She snatched her hand away. 

"Boy what are you doing?!" She hissed, looking around the room to make sure no one saw.

He pulled it right back.

"Don't pull away from me."

Eden looked at him with wide eyes, "Do you not know who you are? WHERE we are???"

"Nobody is looking at us," he said voice deep and smooth. "Just relax - I haven't felt you in days."

She hated when he said shit like that knowing damn well it could be taken another way. At this point, she was wondering if she was the real weirdo the way her vagina was telling her to jump his bones right then and there.

She cleared her throat. "Okay, but what did you want in your messages?"

He didn't say anything for a few seconds, just traced the lines on her palm.

"Namjoon I have to go soon."

"I know."

"Then tell me why you're really here."

"Just wanted to see when you could come over again," he mumbled, so quiet she almost couldn't hear it over the sounds of the cafe.

Her breath caught in her throat.

"That's it?"

"Did I need another reason?"

She didn't expect him to want her back over so soon. Normally he only requested a session once a week or every other week. This was new.

"I'm not really sure...I'm fully booked on Mondays and Thursdays, I work here every Wednesday and on the weekends, and classes take up my Tuesdays and Fridays."

He finally looked up at her, fingers still twisting with hers.

"You could always go to class or work from mines in the morning. I could have the car drop you off."

She pulled her hand away - his words sounding a little too domestic for her liking. They were breaching forbidden territory and she knew she couldn't let it get any further. He was her employer and she had a strict duty to uphold.

"Staying over was a one time thing Namjoon."

"It doesn't have to be though," he argued.

"You're forgetting that this is an actual job for me."

He lifted his black cap to run his hand through his hair. She could tell he was growing frustrated.

"Why are you getting upset?"

"You basically just told me you don't have time for me, and when I come up with a solution you shut me down," he gritted, through clenched teeth.

Her coworker's voice across the room cut their conversation, "Eden are you back soon? We just got a huge online order."

She sighed. She hated leaving the conversation like this, but she had priorities and she couldn't put this one at the top of her list right now.

"Look, I'll text you when I get my phone back. We can work something out then."

Raising from her seat she gave him a small bow before going back to clock in. 

"Who were you chatting with?" her coworker Mina asked, bumping her shoulder playfully.

"Just someone from school. No one special."

Mina shifted to the tip of her toes to get a better look in Namjoon's direction. "Ooo is he cute?!"

"Can you put the stickers on the cups for me?" Eden rushed out, attempting to divert her attention from the idol. "I'll get the food ready."

"Sure thing!"

She could feel Namjoon's stare on her as she worked, but she refused to look his way. He had this way of convincing her to do things with a simple look in his eye, and Eden knew if she looked at him now, she'd fold like a pretzel.

It wasn't until she caught a glimpse of him walking past the counter and the sound of the bell that she allowed her shoulders to relax. 

She could finally think again.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

The rest of her shift went by quickly, mostly consisting of cleaning, and making a latte here and there. An easy night she was grateful for considering the amount of pain her body was in. She didn't even party that hard and still she was feeling the effects.

After waving goodbye to Mina, she headed to the station. Hongdae wasn't exactly close to the cafe, so if she wanted to catch the last train, she'd have to get a move on.

Even though it was late the streets were still filled with people. Coworkers going for night caps, students hunting for cheap food, couples stumbling around hand in hand doing kdrama level pda.

Nothing out of the usual.

By the time she stood outside of the sleazy club from last night, patrons were already lined up at the door, ID's in hand, feeing for entry. Her eyes scanned the line that wrapped around the building. Girls in their little dresses, guys looking for their next hookup, a random group of ajusshis definitely out of place. 

Yeah absolutely not. She was not standing in this line.

She walked right past them and approached the bouncer.

"Excuse me," she said politely. "I left my phone here last night and was wondering if I could just run in and grab it?"

The massive bald man looked down at her with a cold stare. "Back of the line."

Eden blinked.

"Sir I don't think you heard me I just need to grab my pho-"

"Back! of! the! line!"

She jumped back, his voice startling her. 

Oh so he was one of those.

"I just need to grab my phone you can literally walk me in and out!" she argued, not taking no for an answer.

"I said Bac-"

"Yejoon," a new voice cut in calmly. "Let her in."

Eden peered behind the bouncer, mouth dry as she locked eyes with one of the sexiest men she's ever laid eyes on. 

He was tall glass of water dressed in all black. Tattoos peeking beneath his rolled sleeves and open collar. 

He beckoned her forward, his fingers moving in a come hither motion. 

He could definitely do that again in her pus-

Her thoughts were cut off.

"You comin?"

She blinked. Right. He was letting her in.

Eden followed the man into the nightclub. The loud music blaring from the speakers giving her flashbacks of the night before. Never did she think she'd be back here again so soon.

They walked behind the bar until they reached an office. It was a nice size, tucked away in the back hall. He gestured for her to have a seat while shutting the door, '2 on' by Tinashe completely drowned out now.

He settled in the chair across from her.

"So you're the girl who's phone has been going haywire on my desk all day."

Eden winced. "That bad?"

"Considered throwing it against the wall a few times."

"Valid."

He leaned back.

"Popular girl."

The teasing in his voice made her squint.

"You didn't think to answer any of the calls?"

"Not my place."

She couldn't argue with that.

Holding out her hand she smiled, "Well thanks for keeping it safe. Lord knows I've been going crazy without it."

He opened his drawer and retrieved her phone. Then paused.

"Interesting profession by the way. I could use a cuddle session or two."

Her eyes narrowed. "What happened to not your place?"

The man shrugged, a look of amusement on his face. "Curiosity killed the cat."

She hated how attractive he was. 

"What exactly do you do around here?" she asked. "You the manager?"

"Owner."

Of course he was. Everything about him screamed it.

She accepted her phone and stood, "In that case I have a complaint."

His brow lifted.

"Y'all need way more stalls in the bathroom. Three definitely doesn't cut it."

He rubbed his chin in consideration.

"I'll keep that in mind."

A comfortable silence fell between them. Well comfortable to him.

Eden squirmed in her chair, hyperaware of his stare. She sprung from her chair when she couldn't take it any longer. "I should get going. Thanks for holding my phone."

He followed her to the door towering over her as he held it open. 'Sexy Nukim' now at full volume. She groaned internally, of course Namjoon would haunt her at a time like this.

The strong scent of his expensive cologne brought her back to the moment.

"I was serious, you know."

"About what?"

"Booking."

Eden laughed. He had jokes.

"I guess you'll just have to find me." 

He bit his lip, "Oh I definitely will."

Her smile fell from her face. Oh he was serious.

Heat rising up her neck she sped walked out of the room before she could say anything else stupid. His gaze following her all the way outside.

What a gorgeous, gorgeous man.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆ 

Namjoon looked down at his phone with a frown. It had been two days since his talk with Eden and she still hadn't texted back.

rpwprpwp: Did you not get your phone back?

rpwprpwp: Hello?

rpwprpwp: If you don't text back I'm going to assume your phone is gone and send you money for a new one.

He got a response two minutes later. Of course that got her attention.

gardenofeden: Do not do that...

Namjoon could feel his blood start to boil. That was all she had to say?

rpwprpwp: You've had your phone this whole time?

rpwprpwp: Why are you still ignoring me?

He knew he sounded obsessed, but he just couldn't understand the sudden change in behavior. They had such a good session last time, and now she couldn't give him the time of day. 

He looked at the date on his phone and sighed. They were leaving for a short trip to film some things tomorrow and he was hoping to have a session with her before then, but it seemed impossible.

gardenofeden: Not ignoring you

gardenofeden: Just been busy

She was driving him crazy. Why was she being so short?

rpwprpwp: Come over tonight?

gardenofeden: I have homework

rpwprpwp: Bring it with you

Namjoon rolled around in his bed waiting for a response that never came. After an hour, he sat up dejected. 

At this rate he was never going to sleep again. 

Trudging to the living room he sat in his normal spot and turned the tv on. If he was going to be up all night he might as well find something good to watch. He was debating between starting a new show or watching YouTube when his doorbell sounded.

His whole body relaxed when he saw the familiar orange hair on the intercom.

She came.

Holding his composure he opened the door cooly. "Hey."

She returned his greeting and slipped inside.

She was in her pajamas, a pair of snorlax sleep pants and an oversized black hoodie. Cute.

Namjoon took notice of the large black bag on her back, "You really brought your homework?"

She looked up at him through her curls as she traded her converse for slippers. "Yeah, you said it was cool right?"

"Right."

Humming softly she walked into his living room clearing the table off like she was right at home. He watched fondly as she set up her work station in front of his usual spot.

"I won't be able to cuddle you right now, but I figured any type of contact was better than none so I thought I could sit between your legs?"

He thought for a second. A few weeks ago he would have been completely fine with that, the pressure of their thighs touching doing it for him. But now? He wasn't so sure. Their last couple of sessions changed the game.

Not wanting to make things difficult he agreed. It wasn't like it would be that way the whole time. 

"Sounds good."

He settled into the couch, placing a cushion on the floor in front of him to give her some kind of comfortability. He watched as she sank down between his legs, the moment she rested between them he knew it wasn't going to work. He could barely feel her. 

He tapped the side of her neck, "Mm mm scooch up. I'll sit behind you."

She moved up without a word, creating enough space for him to slip behind her on the floor. His chest connecting with her back. He wrapped his arms around her waist, head resting in the crook of her neck. Her usual smell of vanilla and brown sugar taking over. 

This was better.

They sat there for a while, unmoving,  just taking in each other's presence before she leaned forward attempting to break his hold. 

"I have to sit up to take notes."

"Pull the table closer," he muttered into her neck, lips brushing against her slightly. 

He took the hint when she pushed forward again, much stronger than the last.

"Just let me take notes from this video and respond to the discussion post. Then I can sit back," she said, looking over her shoulder.

He let her go. "Fine."

Body twisted, he reached behind him for the remote. Might as well find something to keep him busy. He scrolled through his apps looking for something until a familiar title caught his eye. 

Scandal

He peered at the girl in front of him. She had her headphones in dialed in to her lecture. 

Maybe he'd see what all the hype was about.

Once the show was on he moved his hips forward a little bit to lean further back into the couch. His hands rested on Eden's sides rubbing small circles on her hips.

Surely the lecture wouldn't be that long.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

Eden was in agony.

She hadn't been able to focus since she step foot into Namjoon's. It had been one of the many reasons she didn't want to come over tonight, but the guilt of blowing him off for days was eating her alive, so she sucked it up and came over. Dragging herself and her two ton backpack halfway across Seoul. 

What she didn't expect was this version of him greeting her.

Soft, quiet, and needy.

She had gotten a glimpse of it the last time they were together, but it was quickly shut down by the version of him she knew. The difficult version of Namjoon. The asshole. The stubborn man who argued just to argue.

This was just unsettling.

The feeling of his hands resting on her hips broke her concentration. She could no longer focus on the PESO Model, the only thing running through her mind - the hands burning a hole through her sweatshirt. 

She looked down at the timestamp of her lecture. 

42:34. 

New record. She was impressed she lasted that long.

Headphones off her ears perked up at the familiar voice of Olivia Pope.

She squealed, "Omg you started Scandal?!"

Namjoon jerked awake behind her.

She turned to the side giving the man an apologetic look. "I didn't realize you were asleep," she winced.

Reaching forward he pulled her legs over his lap, hugging her closer. "It's okay baby I wasn't fully asleep."

She pushed her head off his chest, "Stop calling me that."

"Sorry. Just a habit," he mumbled into her hair, eyes still closed.

A habit from where? She didn't know.

She took in his appearance. Back all hunched over and eyes droopy. He couldn't be comfortable on the floor like this.

"Come on, let's move to the couch."

She stood first, turning off the tv, then pulled him to follow. His body hit the couch, arms open to invite her in. She crawled in beside him facing his chest. His large hand resting on her back. 

"Sorry I had to bring my homework."

Namjoon's hands continued their movemenst. "It's okay," he murmured. "Just glad you came." 

Her shoulders relaxed at his admission. She was glad she came too.

"Have you been sleeping ?"

"A little. Not like when I was next to you though."

Her face tightened. "Namjoon that's not healthy."

"I know."

"I'm not going to be around all the time to help you."

He stayed silent.

"You're going to have to make this insomnia your bitch one day Joon."

"You don't think I've tried?"

"I'm not saying that."

"Then stop talking about it."

Eden didn't say anything else, not in the mood to argue. She knew how to pick her battles, and she'd much rather deal with this version of Namjoon than his asshole side. 

She flipped her body around so her back was against his chest. Surprisingly he didn't say anything, just let her get comfortable.

"I didn't mean to snap at you."

"I know."

"I know you were just trying to hel-"

She cut him off, "Just sleep Namjoon."

Neither of them spoke again. The silence saying enough for the both of them.

Soon enough his breathing evened out. The sounds of his soft snores in her ear.

As much as she wanted to join him, she still had work to do. 

AirPods in and lecture video pulled up, she attempted to focus, making it through another good chunk of her notes, before once again, the universe interfered.

*NEW MESSAGE REQUEST!*

moonxkairo: Told you I was serious about booking

She stopped breathing. It couldn't be...

moonxkairo: took me like an hour to find you but I'm always up for a challenge.

She clicked his profile photo to get a better look. It didn't show his face, but the tattoos were undeniable. It was him.

gardenofeden: You're insane

moonxkairo: I told you I was curious

moonxkairo: Your fault for not believing me

gardenofeden: Well you've came and you saw

moonxkairo: But I didn't book

gardenofeden: There are plenty of wonderful cuddlers on here for you

moonxkairo: Yeah...

moonxkairo: But I want you

Her face grew hot. What was up with men being so forward these days?

gardenofeden: You'll have to get in line

moonxkairo: So how does next Saturday sound? I have a pretty comfy couch.

gardenofeden: Stranger Danger

moonxkairo: Cute

moonxkairo: I'll send you my address

gardenofeden: I literally don't even know your name...

moonxkairo: It's Kai

moonxkairo: See you Saturday

Eden stared at the screen. This man was ridiculous.

Super attractive, but ridiculous.

Before she could think of a response, movement behind her pulled her attention away. She forgot where she was for a second. His grip on her waist had tightened, pulling her body closer to his like they weren't close enough. 

She gave up on studying. 

There wasn't much time left in their session anyway, and she definitely couldn't do anything with his iron grip, so she accepted her fate and relaxed into him. 

Her timer went off an hour later causing her to groan quietly, she had just started to drift off. Hand on the bridge of her nose she let out a deep sigh before pushing herself up. Quickly, she gathered her things and headed for the door.

"Eden?"

She froze. So much for a successful escape.

"I'm heading out."

She could see the disappointment immediately.

"You really can't stay?"

For a terrifying second she almost sat back down.

Almost.

"You know I can't," she sighed. "We talked about this."

His jaw clenched.

"Doesn't mean I like it."

It was like he knew exactly what he needed to say to make her stay, but once again she ignored all of the noise in her head, and followed her gut instead.

"Well you're going to have to. It's just how this works."

She retreated from the penthouse before he could say another word.

He was dangerous. Too dangerous for her.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

She was bored and needed some excitement in her life.

Nothing more, nothing less.

That's what she told herself as she stood outside of the club owners third floor apartment, rocking back and forth on her heels.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't a little nervous. 

When she got a text with the address earlier that morning she fully prepared to ignore him and go on about her life.

Then Sunhi got involved.

"Come on E! Aren't you a tiny bit curious?!" she said, voice bouncing off the bathroom walls.

The roles had reversed. It was her to bug Eden while she was in the shower.

"I don't have the time Sun. Plus, he just looks like trouble."

"Those are the best kind of men!"

"And how many of those men have worked out for you?" Eden called over the shower curtain as she shaved her legs.

"I- that's not the point!" she said, gagged. "The point is the fact that you have this sexy ass man asking you to come over and cuddle and you're just blocking your own blessings! I see how robotic you've been moving lately E and it's not healthy."

Eden could hear a hint of concern in her friend's voice at the end of her sentence. 

It was kind of true. She had been moving a little weird lately, the cost of staying booked and busy. She had developed a routine over the past few weeks since she started her cuddle buddy journey and every day she stuck to it.

The only anomaly being Namjoon.

Most days she felt like she was on a never ending merry go round, then he'd text with an "urgent" request to have a session and throw her all off balance. But she liked when that happened. In a way he always kept her on her toes.

But Namjoon was gone, and had been for a few days.

"I just don't want to jump into this and be disappointed." she spoke, as she wrapped herself in a towel and stepped out the shower. "I've had such good luck with both of the guys I have now that I'm scared he'll be the one to ruin it all."

Sunhi's eyes softened.

"Look I know you're a firm believer in 'if it ain't broke, don't fiddle with it' but I think this could be good for you."

"I don't know Sun."

Sunhi followed behind Eden as she made her way to her room. "You're getting paid to cuddle an unbelievably sexy man E. You have to do it so I can live through you!"

"You could easily sign up to do it yourself."

"Not as exciting if I do it."

"Like I said I'm not sure. Let's just drop it for now."

The longer the day went on, the different her answer was. An 'I'm not sure' turned into a maybe, turned into 'I'm thinking about it', into 'I'm on my way over there now.'

The click of the door brought her back to the present. It swung open revealing Kai in all of his glory, decked out in the sluttiest outfit a man could wear. 

A compression shirt and sweats. 

She stared a little too long.

"I knew you'd come."

"I was bored."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"Sure you were."

Stepping aside, he motioned for her to come in.

"I got everything all set up."

Eden followed him inside and immediately could see why he chose the place. It suited him entirely too well.

Massive factory windows stretched almost floor to ceiling, the city lights spilling inside painting the brick walls in warm light. The black metal railing framing the staircase and loft felt right at home with the hard wood beneath her feet. Everything felt so expensive, but lived in at the same time.

A large black leather sofa lined the living room sitting on top of a vintage style rug. He had books on floating shelves lining one wall, framed art scattered everywhere, and even an area with vinyls littered on the wall. It all fit perfectly, everything spaced just right so nothing felt cluttered.

His tv was huge. Like a movie theater screen, and Eden couldn't help but imagine herself cuddled up in a blanket on the couch watching a movie. 

The apartment was attractive. 

Just like the owner.

It was hard to believe an apartment building like this was in the same area as Namjoon's penthouse. For them to be almost five minutes away from each other the vibes were completely different.

She followed the man deeper into the house until they were in the living room. 

Kai dropped onto the couch first, his arm spread out on the back cushion. 

Then he smiled at her.

"I'm nervous."

Eden's steps faltered.

He was nervous? She was literally vibrating under his stare. 

"I should be the one that's nervous," she argued. "Stranger danger remember?"

His laugh was low and warm. "Well here's a start.

She followed his gaze to the coffee table. A woven basket perched in the center filled with all of her favorite snacks.

Pepero, honey butter chips, oreos.

All things she vaguely remembered listing on her cuddle buddies profile.

Folded beside it was the fluffiest blanket she'd ever seen.

She laughed in surprise, "You actually read that?"

"Couldn't get the American candy, but I'll have it by your next visit."

She lifted a brow. Next visit? He was confident for sure.

"You don't have to do that. This is way more than enough, thank you."

"I'm glad you like it."

He leaned forward to grab the remote.

"Want to watch a movie?"

She thanked the heavens above. Finally a session with some entertainment.

"That sounds great."

"How does Transformers sound?"

"Never seen it."

His eyebrows scrunched in confusion, "How have you never seen transformers?"

She shrugged. It had never been on her list of things to get into.

"That's actually criminal."

"It's that good?"

"A cinematic masterpiece. We are watching it."

His back was turned as he got up to set everything up for them. She leaned back and watched as he made a spread of the snacks on the table and unwrapped the blanket.

"You cool adding an hour? The movie is kind of long."

She glanced around the apartment looking at the snacks, the blanket, the movie, the man...

"That's cool."

The anxiety of the real reason she was here came rushing back. She still had to cuddle this man.

When he sat back down he looked across the couch at her expectantly like he was waiting on something.

"Do you come to me or do I come to you?"

Her cheeks were on fire at his words, and her hands were shaking but she managed to grab the folder out of her bag. 

"The basic positions are on the first three pages."

He sat for a moment flipping through the pages before he got to the end. 

"These aren't available?"

"Oh those are for repeat clients."

He hummed. "Interesting, the butt pillow definitely looks tempting."

She was going to kill Sun.

"How about you drape your legs over my lap for now. Then we can spoon when you get done snacking."

She nodded her head afraid if she talked she'd ruin the moment.

"Here."

He shifted closer then gently lifted her legs and settled them across his lap.

The blanket followed a second later, draping over the both of them. 

"Comfortable?"

Eden swallowed.

"Yeah."

He handed her a box of pepero before prompting her to rest her head against his chest. His hand resting on the blanket where her knee was.

For a while they watched the movie and every so often his fingers drifted along the outside of her leg. Nothing inappropriate or anything she would complain about, but each pass still made her hyperaware of where he was touching. 

The movie didn't really catch her interest, but she forced herself to focus on that rather than his touch and the smell of his cologne. 

They were halfway through the movie when he was ready to spoon. He laid down first before Eden made her way down in front of him arm stretching behind them for a quick moment.

"Before we get comfortable." Eden plucked the throw pillow from above their heads and placed it between them as a barrier. "Safety first."

Kai stared at the pillow. 

Then at her. 

Then back at the pillow.

"Cute."

His arm wrapped around her waist pulling her flesh against him. 

This was exactly why she needed the pillow.

No longer interested in the movie she inspected the piece that covered his whole arm. 

The body of a dragon curled around his forearm in intricate detail, soaring through falling petals of a sakura tree, a lone warrior standing on its back.

"You can touch it. I don't mind."

She didn't have to be told twice. 

Her fingertips followed the curve of the dragon's body, tracing the individual scales etched into his skin.

"What made you choose this?

He looked down at her, eyes softening for a split second before they returned to normal.

For a moment, something flickered across his face.

An emotion Eden couldn't quite pinpoint. Just something heavier than what she's seen from him so far.

"It's a story for another time," he said softly.

She nodded. Whatever the meaning was behind the tattoo clearly wasn't first session territory so she let it go.

Her hand fell back to her side as she returned her attention to the movie once more.

"Would you ever get a tattoo?"

She looked up at him with a smile.

"I actually have some."

His eyes locked with hers.

"Really? Where?"

"Just a few small ones scattered around." she shrugged. "I don't think I could commit to a huge piece or a sleeve yet."

"You definitely seem like the type to overthink for a few years before committing to anything."

She gave him a playful push.

"I'll have you know I got a few of these on a whim."

He raised his hands in surrender, "Okay, okay my bad for assuming."

"Serves you right."

By the time the credits were rolling, Eden was fighting a yawn. She hadn't realized how late it had gotten, or how much of the movie they spent talking.

Kai spoke as she rose up from the couch. "You may have gotten away with not watching the whole thing this time, but we will be watching number two next time. No distractions."

She rolled her eyes. "Whatever you say."

She helped clean up before she gathered her things to leave. He insisted she leave the blanket for their next cuddle sessions which she was happy to oblige. 

As she slipped her shoes on by the door, she found herself looking back toward the living room.

The blanket was still draped over the couch, snack basket half empty on the coffee table, and the tv ready to play the second movie.

A few hours ago she was convinced everything and anything would go wrong. Instead, they spent half of the movie talking and laughing.

She caught herself smiling. 

Somehow, it had all felt easy.

Eden stood in the doorway of his apartment unsure of how she should say goodbye. She wanted to express that she had a good time, but didn't want him to take it the wrong way. Lucky for her he took the reins.

"Get home safe."

"I will."

He played with a curl on her shoulder.

"Text me when you get there?"

Eden laughed.

"What are you my dad?"

"No," he agreed. 

His fingers released her curl.

"But if something happens to you, I wouldn't know who to contact for my refund.

Her mouth opened in shock, a few breathy laughs filling the hallway. "Oh fuck you!"

He waved her off with a smile.

"See you next time little red."

Shaking her head, Eden turned towards the stairwell door with a dumb grin on her face.

So annoying.

She took her time walking down the stairs, so caught up in the night she just had she didn't notice the man passing her had stopped to stare.

"Eden?"

She froze.

"You're Eden right?"

She turned slowly meeting the eyes of no other than Jungkook.

Her breath caught in her throat. "W-what are you doing here?"

"Uhh I own the building...What are you doing here?"

She knew whatever she answered she would be in a lose-lose situation. If she told him the truth he'd for sure know who she was just with, but if she lied it opened up a lot of different doors for assumptions.

She chose the latter.

"I was working."

Jungkook frowned.

"Working?"

"Yep."

"With Kai?"

How the fuck did he know that?!

She tried to play it off. "Sorry can't answer that."

Jungkook laughed.

"He's the only other person living in the building right now. My other tenants are idols on tour."

Eden closed her eyes for a second. 

Of course.

"It's alright I won't bring it up to him if I see him."

She immediately relaxed.

"I would appreciate that."

"No problem. Cuddle buddy confidentiality, right?"

"Exactly."

He pulled his phone out like he remembered something.

"You should stop by Rapmon Hyung's. All he did was complain the whole trip about not having you nearby for a session."

Eden's stomach dropped a little.

Right. Namjoon.

She had completely pushed him out of her brain for the night.

"Actually I can call him right now! I'm sure he'd be glad to see you."

She almost jumped to grab the phone out of his hand.

"No no no! No need. I'm sure he'll text me if he needs me!"

Jungkook looked at her weirdly as she waved her hands around frantically trying to keep him from calling his friend.

"Okay...

"It's just we have a process you know?" she chuckled nervously.

"That makes sense. I know hyung can be a little anal sometimes."

"Exactlyyy you get it!" she said. "Well if you'll excuse me I think my cab is outside."

"Okay see you."

She started to move before pausing once more. "Oh Jungkook?!"

He peered back over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Can you not tell Namjoon you saw me? You know client confidentiality and stuff."

He smiled, his bunny teeth on display.

"Of course. Your secret is safe with me."

She returned the smile before taking the stairs down two at a time.

What a close one.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆ 

The FaceTime call rang three times as Jungkook walked in front of his large window that overlooked the city and the ground below. 

On the fourth ring Namjoon's face filled the camera, hair wet from his shower.

"What's up?"

"Hyung you would not believe who I just saw..." 

A/N: Of course her secret was not safe with that man.

IV

They were drunk.

Well, he wasn’t. More tipsy than anything, but definitely not sober enough to be driving, however, Y/N was drunk.

Very drunk.

In the passenger seat of his car. Singing and dancing along to the music as he drove them home, his head light and cheeks flushed. The party had been far wilder than she had described, and his members had eaten their words as they had to be taken home after getting wasted.

Her friends had all but threatened him in their own state of drunkenness to take care of her, something he didn’t need to be told.

Their life had been nothing short of perfect over the past month. Each day he fell more and more in love with his sweet girl. A fact that was impossible to hide, especially from his fans.

The show had been posted 2 days ago and was an instant success. Many praised Y/N for her abilities and vibrant personality, a feat that was near impossible for someone interacting with them, a woman at that.

ARMYs had already crowned her as the best host and interviewer for the boys as her questions allowed them to talk about their craft far deeper than before. They were thoroughly entertained by the first episode of her show and the concept she had chosen. She was shown high praise for her representation of the group and of her own culture, a culture that had been lost in the sea of more dominant countries. His heart filled with immense pride as he read comments over the past few days and smug when the shipping started.

It was impossible for fans to miss the way his entire face lit up throughout the entirety of the video, even with his members’ efforts to keep their contact at a minimum.

op1: bro JK is down horrendous!

op2: exactly, like he’s not even trying to hide it!!!!😂😂🤣🤣

op3: Joon trying to keep him away from her is sending meeee!!

op4: bro chill! she’s all yours!

op5: JK can you even handle all of dat??!🤣🤣

He was a giggly mess while reading the comments and it didn’t help matters when they posted various TikToks. She had posted videos with the entire group, but it was noted when the only solo video she did was with him.

op6: this was clearly Jk’s idea!

op7: the way he looks at her! AHHHHH

op8: I need someone to look at me the way JK looks at Y/N

His members teased him endlessly about it and it didn’t faze him at all. In fact, he relished in it as it was the closest thing he got until he claimed her openly. These thoughts permeated his mind as he drove, making it impossible to keep the dopey smile off of his face, his slight inebriation not helping matters.

He knew he shouldn’t have been driving, but he was intent on getting his girl home safely. The thought sobering him up slightly to keep him focused on the road. He glanced at her in the passenger seat and felt amused at the sight of her singing and dancing.

He laughed at her antics, finding her carefree nature intensifying while inebriated.

“Yuh pussy ago mek me breed yaaaa!” he barked in laughter as she sang the lyrics with a slur.

His joy turned to panic when she stuck her head out of the window.

“Yah!” he exclaimed while reaching his hand out and grabbing the waist band of her skirt, pulling her back in her seat. She squealed in surprise and faced him.

“Hey! I have a boyfriend!” she enunciated each word with her hand in his face. He snickered.

“Really?” he said cheekily.

“Yeahhhh! He is really strong...He’ll beat you up!!” he chuckled at her antics. Y/N stared at him for a moment, her head tilting slightly before she gasped. He glanced at her and was blinded by her bright smile.

“You’re my boyfriend!!!!” she said with a giggle.

She reached over the armrest, taking her seatbelt off and climbed on top of him. He wouldn’t have minded it in any other circumstance, but he was driving, and he tried to form a reasonable thought and focus, but she had to start dancing on him while kissing his neck.

“I-I need to k-keep my eyes on the road” he said in between moans as she whined her hips along to the music, grinding on his budding hardon repeatedly.

“Pull over” she said with a keen. He groaned at her words and nearly gave in, but she was drunk.

“Ani.” he said as sternly as he could.

“Why? I want you” she whispered in his ear, taunting him before she nipped his ear lobe and proceeded to suck on his neck. He moaned through gritted teeth as she continued her ministrations while he drove.

“Don’t you want me?” Jeongguk whimpered pathetically as she put her hand in his pants and started stroking him as she teased.

“Fuck” he breathed out. Fuck it he thought as he pulled over in the nearest alleyway. She giggled as he relented and maneuvered to pull his seat back. Jeongguk hadn’t even realized the trap she had set until she was on her knees.

“Ohhh fuck.” he moaned loudly when pulled his bottoms down and took his cock into her mouth in one go. He looked down and whimpered as she looked at him through her lashes as she sucked his cock vigorously. He was a mess under her hand as she bobbed her head with purpose, wanting to get him there as fast as she could with no consideration to how completely gone he was already.

“Y-Y/N! I-I-I” he pleaded. His hands were on each side of her head as he tried and failed to get her off before he busted his load. She moaned in response, speeding up her motions, not caring for the way her makeup was now ruined from the tears spilling down her face and the buildup of drool draining down her chin.

“Nghhh f-fuckkk” he whimpered helplessly as his body started to shake with his impending orgasm. She took him out of her mouth and proceed to jerk him off with vigor. His eyes drooped as he whined over and over again at the sight of her pretty hands bringing him over the edge.

“B-baby oh, m’gonna come, fuckkkk” she stuck out her tongue at his words sending him straight over the edge. She moaned happily as his spend landed on her, most of it in her mouth and some stripes of it on her cheek and nose.

He was completely empty at that point, shaking slightly as he tried to come back to his senses. Using his current state to her advantage, she resumed her position on his lap, pulling her thong under her skirt to the side and sunk down on his dick.

“FUCKKK!” he moaned loudly.

The sensation of her tightness overwhelming him. She rode him, chasing her pleasure as he started to harden again. He laid back in the seat of his car, body buzzing with overstimulation as he whined, letting out high pitched moans with each roll of her hips. She wasn’t fairing any better as his name spilled from her lips like a prayer. He was starting to gain his senses, so he brought his fingers to her clit.

“Jay.” she moaned as he rubbed the swollen nub. His eyes were glazed as she brought herself to the edge. She moaned loudly as her walls convulsed around him, falling forward with her face in his neck as she came. He wrapped his arm around her waist and after a few thrusts later he came inside of her while panting in her ear.

Their breaths mingled, the only sound heard in the car as he calmed himself down. He checked on her and let out an amused scoff when he found her asleep in the crook of his neck. He chuckled while rubbing her back softly, not having the heart to wake her, he adjusted his seat and drove them home while still inside of her.

...

They had arrived home safely, a miracle really.

He had woken her up, a feat that was near impossible, but finally succeeded and guided her to the bathroom while she groaned in protest.

His sweet baby had thrown up the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

He handled her with great care after that, helping her bathe while she went in and out of sleep. After putting her in a bonnet and one of his shirts, he tucked her in bed while she whined for him to stay. He obeyed her request, caressing her back softly, effectively getting her to sleep. He smiled lovingly at her and placed a soft kiss on her cheek.

He had intended to shower until he got a message from his brother, reminding him of the plans they had made weeks prior. He let out a curse at his own forgetfulness and hated the idea of leaving her alone. His mind made up, he invited his brother over.

He returned to their room and felt horrible about waking her. She whimpered in annoyance while she burrowed herself further into the covers. He smiled lazily at this and decided to leave her be. He planted a few kisses to her cheek and whispered his plans and only got a sleepy hum in response and left with a fond smile on his face.

His brother had texted him that he had arrived, so he told him about his girlfriend.

“Girlfriend?!” his brother exclaimed. Jeongguk hit him on the back of his head in response.

“Keep your voice down. She’s sleeping” he furiously whispered. His brother snickered at his response.

“Yahhhh. You’re whipped” his brother teased. Jeongguk rolled his eyes at his teasing and led him to his bar. It was a floor below and thankfully, soundproof.

They laughed over drinks and eventually got into karaoke. Jeongguk was already in the clouds with the liquor flowing through his veins and the cigarette smoke in the air as his brother took a drag. He knew he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t

*

Jeongguk went live on Weverse.

The live was chaotic to say the least. He was completely loose with his words, at least in regard to the clean-cut persona he was supposed to portray, instead he showed more of his personality without censorship.

He talked about smoking while teasing fans with the lollipop he was eating. About 30 minutes in he decided to check on his baby, while still on live—it was muted of course. He kept the phone on himself and found that his girl was not in the room.

He started to panic until he heard movement in the bathroom. It had been 3 hours since he had gotten them home and when he opened the door, he found a sleepy Y/N sitting on the toilet. he giggled at her and she turned her head to him with a pout.

“Cute” he said in between laughter. She sucked her teeth, the sound drawling out in her tired state.

“Gwenchana?” he asked with a soft smile.

“I’m hungry” she said softly. Jeongguk giggled fondly at her, she was most adorable thing he had ever seen.

“I’ll cook. What do you want?” he asked softly with a smile on his face. She told him it didn’t matter as she got up and cleaned herself. Jeongguk was completely enamored with her as he assessed her while she washed her hands. It took her a second to assess him and she noticed how he had his phone directly in his face.

“What are you doing?” she asked tiredly.

“I’m on live” he said nonchalantly. That woke her up completely.

“What!!!!?!!” she exclaimed. Her reaction produced laughter from her boyfriend. He put the phone faced down on the sink and pulled her into him. After taking the lollipop out of his mouth. He kissed her, distracting her for a moment from the situation at hand.

“Yah! Are you crazy?” she whined. He pushed the lollipop in her mouth to shut her up and laughed right in her face at the shocked look she gave him.

“I muted it. Actually, my brother is here, I want you to meet him.” Jeongguk watched her in a daze as she sucked on the lollipop before taking it out of her mouth. She repeated the same action he had done to her previously and he smiled around the stem of the candy.

“You’re ridiculous” she said fondly and he grinned at her. She rolled her eyes and left the bathroom with him following. She put on a pair of his basketball shorts while he watched her intently.

*

He beamed at how well his brother and Y/N were getting along. He had set his phone back up with the live still muted and the camera only facing him and turned his head to his girl.

“Baby, come say hi” he said while laughing slightly. Y/N gave him a deadpanned look that only made him laugh more.

“Yah! You said you’d cook for me.” his brother laughed at her response and Jeongguk snickered and relented in her underlying answer. He wanted to show her off. Badly, but he understood that it was not the right time. He also knew he would get a lot of shit tomorrow for his recklessness, but he didn’t care.

He unmuted the live and made his way to the kitchen. The chat was exploding with questions, the fans wanting to know who he was talking to while muted. He read several comments to himself that asked if he had a girlfriend and smiled widely and nodded while still sucking the lollipop.

They queried further, wanting to know what he meant by the gesture, what question was he responding to. He left them curious as he smiled cheekily and talked about the food he started to make instead.

“Tonight I’m a private chef” he said with a conspiratory smile. An inside joke that the fans tried desperately to decipher. He read the comments, many asking who he was cooking for.

“Someone you know” he said cheekily. He read more comments as he continued to cook and broke out into the brightest smile ARMYs had ever seen from him at the mention of his girl. They were asking if they were together. If the rumors and shipping were true and he took it all in, feeling quite smug.

“Y/N? Did you watch her show?” he said cheekily. His words exploded in the chat, especially with the adoring expression he made while uttering her name. They asked if they had known each other prior to going on her show, if they were dating and if he liked her.

Generally, the comments were good too good, until they weren’t.

Unfortunately, in the throes of excited praises for his sweet girl came the racism. Something he had experienced with the group’s rise to stardom in the west. He should have expected it. Shouldn’t have been so surprised at how disgusting some were being about her. Still, it pissed him off and they noticed.

His gaze had flipped from being jolly and adoring to pure rage as he read the vile things that were being said. The alcohol didn’t help matters. He couldn’t hold his tongue.

“Yah. I don't know where you got the idea that I would be ok with that shit but stop it...Racism?” he scoffed angrily before continuing. “Aish shibal sekiya! Talking shit about my girl. Pissing me off” he mumbled angrily, not even realizing that he had exposed the nature of their relationship until it was too late. When he looked up from his cooking at the comments again, ARMYs defending Y/N and admonishing the racism shown by the few in the chat.

Then came the shock and exclaimed reactions at his wording. Some, those not well versed in Korean took it as a mistranslation, others understood and confirmed it without him saying a word. He toyed with the idea then, to confirm it, and was going to with the smug smile that etched onto his face. However, the woman of the hour texted him and the sound of footsteps had made his head snap forward. She pointed to her phone signaling to him to look at his own. In the message she sent, she told him to wait, his brows furrowed a bit, not being able to fully wrap his head around why she had stopped him.

He went quiet a shift in demeanor that was impossible to hide from his girl and the fans. He remained on live for 10 more minutes after that and when it ended, they remained in silence for a moment.

“Why did you stop me?” He asked, trying to mask his hurt. She felt her heart sink at the way his eyes started to turn glassy, the mixture of the rejection and the alcohol in his veins heightening his emotions.

“It’s not the right time. You’re about to have a comeback, you don’t need any negativity right now” she said carefully. Her words registered slowly in his mind and his hurt turned to anger.

“Negativity? Am I just supposed to let them talk shit about you like that?” She gave him a small smile, a tired thing that made him still. She tried to mask the pain in her eyes with the gesture, but he saw it. It did affect her, even though she wished it didn’t.

“I’m used to it. People have a problem with someone being black for whatever reason. It doesn’t bother me anymore.” A lie. It did bother her. It made her question herself, her worth. She knew it was stupid, that the vile actions and words of others didn’t mean that something was wrong with her, but it made her question herself.

It broke his heart. The way she shifted nervously, not wanting to meet his gaze. The pain turned to anger. It was one thing if it was directed to him alone, but he couldn’t stand her facing any grievance, especially one that was based on her very existence.

“Are you sure?” he asked lowly. She plastered her best smile and turned to him, her eyes glazed over as she tried not to cry.

His mind short circuited for a moment, taking in her attempt at brushing it off. This wouldn’t do.

It happened quickly. He came to her on the other side of the island and threw her over his shoulder. She let a squeal of surprise and protested the enter way to their bedroom, she hit his back and he responded in kind with a firm slap to her behind, earning a choked moan.

“I guess I didn’t make it clear enough. You’re mine, I don’t care what anyone says” he said lowly after throwing her on the bed. She stared up at him, panting, feeling her walls clench uncontrollably at the look in his eye.

He made a show of stripping in front of her. Removing each article with precision while devouring her with his gaze. She was so fucked.

Down to nothing but his jewelry and boxers that did nothing to hide his obvious arousal, he grabbed her legs and pulled her to the edge of the bed. She whimpered pathetically at the action and watched pitifully as he took her shorts off.

“You know how I felt when they were saying that shit about you? You’re used to it? I don’t care. No one gets to treat you that way” he said, scoffing in between, anger in every phrase as he got on his knees.

“J-jay—” she started with a whimper, the words dying in her throat when he plunged his tongue into her cunt. She cried out as he lapped up her juices, putting his all into giving her pleasure, wanting to erase the hurt that had settled over her.

Jeongguk groaned at the taste of her, enjoying the way that she tugged his hair with each stroke of his tongue. She babbled incoherently as he quickened his movements, not being able to get out her words as he bullied that spot inside of her.

She let out a silent scream when he started moving his head up and down, causing his nose to rub against her engorged clit over and over again.

“B-baby, w-w-wait” she pleaded as she felt her orgasm approaching quickly. He didn’t listen, instead he flicked his tongue with more vigor, gripping her hips and ground her wet cunt against his face.

She was brought to tears as she came. Back bending off of the bed as she tried to run from him, but he kept her in place and rubbed her clit and groaned loudly as she made a mess of him.

Her body twitched as she whimpered from the intensity. Jeongguk placed kisses on her thighs and led them up her body, finally resting his chin on the lower part of her stomach.

“Look at me” he commanded lowly. She obeyed and whimpered at the look in his eyes; they were filled with so much adoration that she didn’t know how to cope.

Her head was a mess, unable to form a coherent thought as he stared into the depths of her soul, stripping every negative thought that had invaded her mind. She let out a broken gasp as he slowly inserted his fingers into her pussy.

“J-jay” she said with a sigh.

Jeongguk felt his heart bursting. He loved her so much that it consumed him entirely and the thoughts of her being so broken by the vile things they had said about her brought on a rage he didn’t know he was capable of.

“Don’t listen to them” he said lowly as he stroked his fingers inside of her slowly, crooking them upwards to stimulate that sweet spot that made her see stars. “You’re so special. A light. An angel. And mine, and what they say doesn’t matter. Arasseo?” he fingered her deeply, slow strokes at the end of each word, making her head spin.

She felt so completely bound to the man on his knees before her, all thoughts of insecurity bleeding away until the only thing she could think of was him.

“Look at you. So perfect. You want me to wait? Ok. I’ll listen this time, but don’t worry about me. Let me take fall. Let me take me the pain. You don’t have to do anything but let me love you.” he sped up his movements slowly, taking in every moan and gasp that erupted from her pretty lips.

Her heart pounded in her chest. Love. He loved her.

Her walls convulsed around his fingers. Her orgasm coming on slow as he chased it with each caress of her walls with his digits as he goaded her on.

“That’s it pretty girl. Take it. Just come all over my fingers” he said. Her vision turned white as she obeyed his command. He moaned at the sight of her gushing all around him, taking what she gave without complaint. She was completely gone, the sounds she heard extending her pleasure to heights she never thought possible.

She came down slowly. Her boyfriend whispering praises as he slipped out of her, making her whimper at the loss. She felt him kiss her neck before cradling her face and bringing her back to reality.

“Don’t cry baby” he whispered softly as he caressed her face. She looked at him, not even realizing that she had tears falling. Jeongguk looked at her so softly as her lips quivered. She felt so overwhelmed by emotion, the only thing she could do was kiss him, pouring all of her feelings into the action.

He returned everything with the gesture. It was messy and so pure all at once as they chased each other. He moved his hands to grip her thighs as he broke away, nipping her bottom lip.

“Can I?” he asked softly, needing to be inside of her, wanting to connect with her on the most intimate way physically possible.

“Please” she said while nodding her head.

He entered her slowly and they both sighed at the feeling. She clung to him as he rocked his hips slowly, arms wrapped his neck, hugging him into her. He whimpered into the crook of her neck, whispering praises and fucked her deeply. Nice and slow, not wanting the moment to end.

He brought his face to hers, kissing her softly while speeding up slightly.

“I love you” he said with so much vulnerability, the tip of his cock massaging that spot inside of her with each deep stroke of his cock. She gasped as she started to come and it took it all, ingraining the look into his mind as he groaned over and over again as he followed her over the precipice.

He nuzzled deeper into the crook of her neck as they breathed together after coming down. Y/N massaged his scalp with her hand, nails grazing the flesh lightly with each movement sending trills down his spine before she motioned for him to look at her.

Her brows furrowed as she smiled so sweetly at him, trying so hard to keep her tears away. The emotions were rising within her so intensely that her mind ran rampant with ways to vocalize what she felt.

Jeongguk watched her for a moment, not needing anything from her as he understood already through their connection. It was tacit, something innate that needed no words, just here, there with him.

“I love you” she said in English, unable to even turn over the phrase in her mind to transmit the translation to her lips. He smiled widely at her words and sealed them with a deep kiss, drawing her into his heart even deeper without any thought of letting her go.

[...]

The internet went crazy over the live. As the days turned into weeks, the boys prepared for their comeback and Y/N prepared for her book release, Jeongguk was in the clouds.

Watching his girl work easily became one of his favorite past times. She was meticulous and passionate with her craft. Late nights huddled into the corner of a room with paper sporadically displayed around her like a mad scientist.

Ink staining her fingers as she paced the living room while muttering her thoughts and ideas before putting it in writing. The way her eyes sparkled with joy and twinge of insanity when she finally arranged words in the right order, all of it.

A menoluseum of passion and dedication that reflected in the final piece of each project she deigned to share with the world. His girl, bright and brillant as she laid on his couch while typing away on her laptop as she prepared for her upcoming trip to Japan.

He snuck glances at her often from his place in the kitchen, eyes wrinkling as he smiled with fondness. She was unaware of the love he projected towards her while trapped in her element, a role model for him.

Turning his anxiety and debilitating perfectionism into a force to drive him further in producing his best work, while still ensuring he remained grounded. To stay calm in some moments. To never forget himself, no matter the road ahead.

The world didn’t matter in moments like these. The speculations over their relationship was never ending. They never confirmed it, not truly, but his live was enough for people to connect the dots, and he relished in the support that was given. HYBE had put out a statement, neutral, composed, stating their detachment from the personal lives of their artists.

He was still scolded for his live of course. Not for the things he said but for how they were said. It was more of an offhanded reminder to be careful as to not bring any negative consequences on the both of them and the group.

His members teased endlessly about it. His protectiveness and will to defend her without any thought of consequence and the way he glowed brighter as the days passed.

They were happy that he had found his person.

Someone that was capable to stand at his side without fear or hesitance towards the hectic nature of his career, a consequence of her own influence. Her career reached new heights with the debut of her show.

Her social media numbers had tripled, the restock of her novel sold out 10x faster than the original and the demand for her in scholarlly spaces were rising. Jeongguk couldn’t help but feel proud, the feeling successfully drowning out the negativity.

He never thought he would be someone to settle down easily before her. The fast life of his career pausing his desire for someone to call home due to the unpredictability of it and then he met her. She understood him in ways that he didn’t think humanly possible, was content in him alone outside of the fame. He was content, happy, and in complete bliss, he knew he would be ruined during their separation.

His girl knew it too, with the way he became clingier as the date for her departure approached. 4 days from now, 2 days before the album release, but he didn’t worry about it being an obstacle in their union. They could work around it, he knew they would, she was far too levelheaded for them not to.

“Baby, come eat” he called from the kitchen as he finished preparing their plates down. Y/N blinked owlishly at the interruption and widened her eyes at the time. She had been in her zone for hours without realizing. She sighed and set aside her work before streching like a cat with her eyes closed to bring back some feeling in her legs.

She felt her boyfriend’s hands on her waist as he pulled her up with an amused chuckle. She smiled widely when she opened her eyes to look at him before following him into the kitchen with her heart filled with boundless joy.

Y/N groggily felt around for her phone as her alarm blared. It was a struggle as Jeongguk gripped her so tightly in his sleep, protesting with a groan at the disturbance.

She turned it off when she finally found it and cursed internally when she saw the time—4am. Her flight was bound to leave at 9 but she needed to time get ready and go through the motions of the airport.

She tried and failed 3 different times to remove the muscular arms from around her waist and chuckled when she was finally successful. She heard the man let out a groan in protest at the weight of her leaving his side while sprawled himself over the expanse of her bed, clutching her pillow tightly for comfort in his sleep. She shook her head in amusement before proceeding to prepare for her departure.

Jeongguk blinked his eyes sleepily and felt around for his girlfriend as he started to rise. He groaned in annoyance when he realized he was alone and then remembered what day it was. Travel day he thought with a pout.

He willed himself out of bed and saw his baby in front of her camera setup in the corner of the room doing her lashes. He smiled tiredly at this, remembering that she would be vlogging her trip, that gesture turning into a mischievous smirk when he had an idea.

He got out of bed feeling quite smug in nothing but a pair of Calvin Klien boxers and approached her. She let out a sound of surprise when she felt him nip her ear with his teeth.

“Yah. I’m filming” she said shyly. He chuckled at her reaction and placed a kiss on her neck in response. Earning a breathy sigh as she tried to focus on her task at hand, her lashes.

“Hajimaaa” she whined in amusement at his antics. He sighed and pouted like a child being denied candy and reluctantly detached himself from her.

Jeongguk made it his mission then to make an appearance in every shot of the video capturing their banter and his loving gazes. He hoped she understood what he was doing, and that she wouldn’t edit him out of the vlog.

Y/N stopped in her tracks and looked at her boyfriend with wide eyes through the mirror as he emerged from the bathroom. Jeongguk was clad in nothing but a towel, water dripping down his body as he walked lazily in the direction of her closet for a change of clothes while brushing his teeth. He smirked around the brush at her exasperated look, a slight glare with her cheeks flaming at his audacity.

He had no shame as he grabbed his clothes while humming off camera. He made a show of returning to the bathroom, chuckling under his breath as she had taken to ignoring him with flushed cheeks as she talked to the camera.

His antics didn’t stop there as he kidnapped her camera while she took a shower.

“Hello everyone. I’m JK” he said in English with a wide smile into the camera as he took it with him in the kitchen. “Yahhhh. This is really hard” he noted, switching to Korean as he set up the camera to record while he prepared for breakfast. He put her playlist on shuffle and went through the motions of cooking

It lasted 20 minutes, Jengguk singing and dancing along as he prepared their meal while talking to the camera like he had seen her do in previous vlogs. He was thoroughly enjoying himself when Y/N found him.

She laughed loudly when she entered the kitchen as Jeongguk was singing along passionately to a Sizzla song. When he spotted her his singing became more vigorous than before, seranading her as his hands moved expertly while cooking.

Y/N shook her head in amusement, giving up on keeping him out of the vlog. Instead, she sat and watched as he had his fun and sat in peace at the idea of them confirming their relationship to the world once and for all.

[...]

Jeongguk was getting whiplash with the flurry of emotions that constantly shifted within him.

It had been 4 days since his girl had gone on her trip and Jeongguk was miserable without her presence with him. Then he would be ecstatic promoting their album and preparing for the start of their tour.

They spoke every day, an easy arrangement as they were still in the same time zone, but it wasn’t the same as having her with him. Still his smile was wide and never ending when she went into excited ranting over her lectures and conferences, and he had seen it all through the breaks he took sporadically.

Eyes glued to his phone as he lapped up every video of her doing her thing. She was the most brilliant person he had ever met, eloquent in her speech while still engaging with her audience and bringing tasteful humor when necessary—a natural. Yet he still craved to be a part of the lucky ones that got to see her in action in the flesh.

Y/N wasn’t faring any better. She was on cloud 9 as her conference tour ran smoothly, but in between the podiums her heart ached without him near her. Still, she lapped up the videos. The concert, the documentary, she had squealed with every frame, a fact that received endless teasing with flaming ears from her boyfriend.

3 more weeks.

*

Jeongguk was losing his mind.

He took a deep breath as he looked at the selfie his girlfriend had sent him on her way to the club with her team. It was an innocent photo, a simple mirror selfie showing off her outfit.

That was the problem. The fucking outfit. A mini dress with cutouts at the front that revealed every angle of her figure—her stomach, thighs and ample cleavage, but what was really pushing over the edge was the pretty piercing she had gotten.

The navel ring sparkled at the center of her waist, taunting him. He could feel pure heat travel through his body as the members prepared for their last show in Goyang around him. Yet, the only thing on his mind was taking her out of that dress

He excused himself, making his way to the bathroom. He called her the moment he locked the door, his girl answering after a couple rings.

“Hey baby” she said softly. He heard shuffling around and the voices of her team trail away, and then a door close after her greeting.

“Everything ok?” Jeongguk had to suppress a groan at the sound of her voice once more, letting out a deep sigh.

“Gwenchana. You didn’t leave yet?” Y/N’s voice hitched lowly at the tone of his voice.

“Ani. We leave in bit. Why?” He scoffed softly, confusing her for a moment.

“Nothing. Just wanted to hear your voice.” She nibbled her bottom lip, trying to suppress a smile.

“That’s sweet of you, but don’t you have to perform soon?” he groaned lightly in response.

“Hmmm. The guys are preparing. I’ll join them in a bit...You look so sexy in that outfit...” his voice came out wistfully boarding on a moan.

“O-oh. Thanks” she stuttered in reply. She heard a voice in the background calling his name and Jeongguk clucking his teeth in response before sighing.

“I have to go ok. Be safe and have fun.”

“Hmmm. Don’t push yourself too hard” she scolded lightly.

“Arasseo...I love you” he said with a tiny giggle at the start. She smiled at his words before responding.

“I love you too baby.” After they hung up, Y/N felt hot everywhere, utterly clueless at what her boyfriend had in store for in the coming days.

*

Jeongguk stretched widely on the hotel bed. After the show he had worked out a bit and showered and was getting ready to sleep, those plans shifted when he received a facetime from Y/N.

“Baaaaabbyyy.” Jeongguk giggled at the sound of her voice. His girlfriend had her face directly in the camera with the biggest smile on her face as she dragged out the endearment drunkenly.

“How much did you drink?” he said with laughter.

“I bu’s up (I burst up* Meaning very drunk” she said while snickering into the camera.

Jeongguk laughed at her antics, finding the entire thing far more adorable than he should have. He watched as she propped her phone up in the bathroom, giving him a perfect view of her. He muttered curses under his breath at the sight of her, the most beautiful woman he had seen.

“Did you have fun?” he asked softly as she started taking off her makeup, that task taking longer than usual due to her inebriation. She pouted at his words, eyes welling in tears causing him to stiffen in worry.

“What’s wrong?” he asked with wide eyes. She sniffled before responding.

“I miss you” she whined. Jeongguk felt relief at her words, letting out a chuckle with twirling his feet.

“Oh. You want me to come?” he said teasingly but in reality, he would hop on a flight right away if she said yes.

She nodded her head yes while still pouting, the action causing him to melt at her cuteness. He wasted no time in alerting his members that he would depart without them and booked the earliest flight.

“I’m coming. Wait for me, ok?” Her face lit up at his words and had to bury his face in his forearm to hide the redness that erupted in his cheeks.

“You promise?” She asked with wide eyes as she walked into her room before placing her phone on the bed. He couldn’t see her from this angle, but he heard shuffling of clothes.

“I promise” he said with a smile as she was now in view, clad in an oversized t-shirt that he recognized to be his own. He smiled cheekily at the sight of her, in a daze as she put her bonnet over her braids and tucked herself into bed.

“Don’t break your promise. I’ll fight you!” He laughed at her words that were coming out slurred, her inebriation and tiredness taking over.

He shook his head lightly with a smile as she dozed off.

“Goodnight, my love” he said before getting up and packing his things quickly and got ready to head to the airport.

Jeongguk arrived at her hotel 6 hours later, smiling stupidly as he opened her door. He was met with his girlfriend dead asleep under the covers and arranged his luggage quietly as to not rouse her.

It was a little after 7 am and he was glad that their first show in Japan wasn’t for another 4 days as he stripped and headed to the shower.

When he was done, Y/N was still asleep, making his heart skip a bit at the sight of her. Adorable he thought as he climbed into the bed beside her.

She let out a dreamy sigh as she burrowed closer into his arms. He sighed contentedly and drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face knowing he was exactly where he wanted to be.

Y/N woke up surrounded by heat and a heavy weight on top of her. She blinked in confusion for a moment as she registered what was going on, she let out a little gasp when she recognized that the crushing weight was her boyfriend who had his face buried in the crook of her neck.

That was when she started to remember the call from the night before and became overwhelmed with emotion. He really came she thought with her heart fluttering.

She rubbed the nape of his neck, dragging her hand up through his hair before pushing it off of his forehead. He groaned and burrowed deeper into her embrace, sighing contentedly in his sleep, bringing a smile to her face.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Jeongguk opened his eyes, the pupils dialated and far darker than she had ever seen as he groaned under his breath due to her minastrations.

“Hmmmm” he hummed lowly, the sound reverberating through her body. She gasped when he surged upward and and kissed her hard. She moaned into his mouth, the sound blending with a slight winced as he pressed his body against her more than before, irritating her nipples. He pulled back, head slightly tilted in confusion.

“What is it?” he asked softly, worry lacing his tone. She averted her eyes before responding.

“New piercings” she said shyly. He squinted his slightly, appraising her face at the conspiratory tone she gave him.

“Oh. Show me.” she blushed at his words, contemplating for a moment before switching their positions to straddle him.

Thighs bracketing his hips, Jeongguk stared at her in amusement while he laid on his back with his forearm behind his head. He watched her nibble her bottom lip for a moment, revealing her shyness before she took off his shirt.

She began to squirm at the look he gave her, almost instantaneous, like a hunter assessing his prey. She shivered as he trailed his hand from her hip to her stomach, finger toying around the sparkly ring that highlighted her navel. He gave a slight hum of approval, the sound doing wicked things to her brain and body, before he smirked as he hand trailed upwards.

Jeongguk was certain she was trying to kill him. That could be the only explanation for her to adorn her pretty nipples with silver. He was painfully hard beneath her as his mind started to buzz while he traced the underside of her full breast with his thumb. He smiled wickedly at the slight whimper that escaped her that she failed to conceal.

He said nothing as he continued his movements, thumb trailing to her nipple and rubbing it lightly. The sound she made at his touch was a cross between a moan and a wince, and he knew then that they wouldn’t be leaving this room soon.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, voice husky and so deep that she felt her mind starting to go under.

“A-ani, just sore.” Oh she was shy now? he thought with a devilish smile.

“Want me to make it feel better?” he asked while staring directly into her eyes. She couldn’t form words, instead she whined pathetically in response, earning a teasing chuckle from the man beneath her.

She gasped loudly when he surged forward and brought his mouth to her breast, gripping his hair as he teased her dark areola with his tongue before latching onto her nipple tenderly. She moaned at the feeling, earning a deep groan from him as he wrapped his arms around her waist and guiding her hips to grind against his cock that strained beneath his boxers.

She felt dizzy as he suckled her tits, taking great pleasure in easing the ache the piercings had brought. He rotated between them, giving them equal attention, lavishing in the way she clutched him so tightly while letting out sweet sounds from her pretty lips. Each moan, each whimper and gasp goading him on as his tongue caressed the sensitive buds. He was going to ruin her.

“Jay!” she said loudly as he manhandled her. Jeongguk groaned loudly as he easily lifted her by the hips, preparing to deposit her pretty pussy onto his mouth while he laid on his back.

“I’m heavy” she said shyly. He snarled at her words.

“Shut up” he responded gruffly as he placed her exactly where he wanted. She moaned loudly above him as his tongue lapped up her wet cunt, his hands keeping her firmly in place by the flesh of her hips, using them to his advantage as he rocked them back and forth, her cunt dripping against his tongue.

“W-what the fuck” she moaned helplessly, in disbelief at how easily he made her so malleable under his touch. He grinded her pussy against his tongue, her clit rubbing against his nose with each movement. Jeongguk was starving beneath her, wanting desperately for her to drench him in her juices. He had waited nearly a month, the pent-up tension in his body threatening to snap each day he was without her.

She was slowly being brought to tears as she clutched his hair, trying to get away as the pleasure was becoming too much for her to handle, even though she truly didn’t want it to end. She thought she was successful in doing so but, her boyfriend was far stronger than she was and with deep growl ripping through him, she squealed in surprise as he put her in a different position.

Jeongguk chuckled in amusement at how startled she had gotten when he put her on all fours, fiercely gripping her hips to keep her in place.

“Baby please!” she moaned loudly as he plunged his tongue into her hole from behind. She let out a broken sob at the way he made it his mission for her to cum as hard as possible.

Groaning into her pussy that was creaming around his tongue, strong arms keeping her exactly where he wanted. His name spilled from her lips in between her moans, the sound reaching higher and higher as he moved his head side to side as he consumed her entirely.

He moaned loudly as she started to come, her were legs shaking and starting to give out beneath her, but it was futile as he kept her back arched. He didn’t stop, he couldn’t, she was like a drug, and each drop of her cum was the only thing that could satisfy him.

“J-jay, w-wait! I-I-I can—” The words died on her tongue as her eyes rolled back as she came again, far quicker than she thought possible.

“Fuccckkkk!” he moaned loudly as he rubbed her clit as streams of clear fluid sputtered out of her pussy. She was shaking as she fell flat on the bed, nearly curling into herself at the intensity.

Jeongguk placed several kisses along the line of her hip as he moved her on her back, her body hot and her eyes set in a daze as she tried to regain her senses.

“You’re so fucking perfect” he said lowly while taking his boxers off. Her head lolled as she blinked catching sight of his movements, her cunt clenching with need at the sight of his cock as it slapped his stomach. She whimpered as he used her wetness to stroke himself a few times while he watched her, the pretty jewelry glinting at him, taunting to lay his claim.

He chuckled darkly as she stared with her chest heaving. He gripped her leg, bending it towards her, enjoying the sight of her pretty toes that were brandished with white nail polish. Everything about her lured him without her even trying, so beautiful and entirely his.

He kissed her calf, then her thigh, before placing a sweet kiss upon her lips, enjoying the feeling of her hands on him as she locked them behind his neck.

“You ok?” he asked softly, wanting to ensure she was fully prepared for it.

“I need you” she replied with a slight whimper before chasing his lips again. He groaned into the kiss, rocking against her without even thinking, sending shivers down his spine, he wasn’t going to last long.

He detached from her for a moment, sitting on his haunches while stroking his cock a few times before tapping the fat head onto her clit. She moaned at the action, already sensitive and Jeongguk’s resolve was hanging on by a thread as he felt like he was going to combust.

He dragged the tip along her slit, the friction erupting soft moans from both of them.

“Such a pretty pussy” he said deeply as he pushed inside of her slowly. Her eyes closed as she let out a guttural moan at the feeling, her boyfriend wasn’t fairing any better with the way his body shook slightly as he kept his release at bay.

This first drag of his cock inside of her cunt made her brain turn to mush as he stretched her walls, the tip kissing the fleshy spot inside of her that sent her over the edge. He stilled for a moment, pressing his chest to hers, mindful of the piercings and rubbed his nose against hers softly before pulling in and out slowly.

“Nghhhh” she moaned as he began a torturous pace, slow and deep allowing her to feel each drag. He groaned pitifully with each thrust, knowing that he would cum far quickly than he had intended. The feeling of her clenching him so tightly, her gummy walls sucking him in, choking him like a vice. The way her face was marked with pleasure, tears spilling slowly down her face as her eyes struggled to remain open. Fuck.

His thrusts became faster, unable to control himself as the tip of his cock hit her sweet spot with a bruising space. She began to claw at his back, each drag of her nails making him dizzy, feeling drunk as his body started to shake.

“Oh f-fuck. Baby m’coming, m’coming, Fuckkkk” he moaned helplessly in the crook of her neck and he thrusted erratically, his balls slapping against her with each movement as he emptied inside of her wet cunt. Ropes of him planting deeply inside of her womb as she let out a silent cry, toes curling as she tugged on his hair while she came with him.

Jeongguk felt his breath being punched out of him as she came. Her wetness flowing out of her as he grounded his hips, her clit rubbing against his pelvis to help her ride out the sensation as she creamed all over his cock. He could feel himself hardening again, unable to resist her and the sweet pussy she gave him.

She cried out in pleasure when he sat up while they were still joined together. She was on his lap, straddling him as he hugged her to his chest and thrusted upward with a bruising pace.

“Jay, Please, I can’t, nghhh fuck” she moaned loudly into his ear as she clutched him for purchase. He growled at her words and fucked her with such intensity that she felt like she was drowning in an abyss.

Mind completely under his spell as he grunted with each thrust while his strong arms kept her place. She started babbling incoherently as her walls started clenching sporadically over his shaft.

“That’s it, baby. You can take it. Just take it” he goaded and she could do nothing but obey.

He latched onto her nipple sending her over the edge. Her body shook as she tugged harshly onto his hair, unable to form words as she started to come, her pussy pushing him out of her as streams of clear fluid drained out of her.

Jeongguk guided her onto her back, her fucked out state etched into his mind as he rubbed her swollen clit while she drenched him in her essence. As she came down from her high, eyes trying to focus on the man that had turned her brain into mush, her breaths came out short as she tried to come to her senses.

Jeongguk stroked his cock a few times, grunting as his spend painted her pussy that was clenching around nothing during the aftermath.

His movements were soft as he brought her back to reality, rubbing her stomach softly before trailing kisses from around her navel to her breasts, neck and finally her lips. She sighed contentedly into the kiss, simply wanting to feel him against her.

“I’m right here pretty girl. You were so good for me” he whispered lovingly against her lips. She lapped up the praise as she started to hug him against her, her body and mind completely belonging to him in that moment.

[...]

Jeongguk was in complete heaven.

After their passionate lovemaking he had taken great care of his sweet girl, had their bedding changed, thoroughly enjoyed how shy she had gotten after.

Now he was watching her with a goofy smile as she put the finishing touches on her vlog. He had reassured her that he wanted to be in the video, informing her that the company was aware that they had intended on going public.

She was nervous of course, caring more about the difficulties he would face compared to the hate that would follow her. He ensured that she would be protected and kissed her with such tenderness pouring his love into the action far better than he could with words.

He would protect her, keep her away from the vile words of others. He knew they would be fine, his fans, the real ones at least, wouldn’t allow for such disrespect to go unpunished. His reassurances had comforted her enough to relent to his pleading.

He snickered as she edited sticker over his body in the video, only revealing his face as he had been practically naked in most of the shots.

“Leave it. They’ll love it” he said cheekily in between laughter. She gave a glare, causing him to laugh harder as her expression reflected that of a puppy. She turned her head while sucking her teeth at his antics, smiling without even realizing.

“I don’t care. Only I get too that!” Jeongguk giggled with a blush staining his cheeks at her words.

“Jinja?” He asked cheekily while looking up at her while laid on his side. She sucked her teeth again in amusement and giggled along with him.

“You so fool!” she said in English while laughing. He chuckled and raised upwards and planted a wet kiss to her cheek.

He was in complete bliss.

After a few moments, he chuckled as his girlfriend squealed after the video was posted. It was a long one, over 3 hours of meticulously edited footage that spanned the departure and 3 weeks of her trip.

On instinct, Y/N picked up her phone and was prepared to check her social media, her boyfriend noting the way she nibbled her lip anxiously took the device from her.

“Yah!” she exclaimed in confusion.

“Don’t look for now. I don’t want you to get in your head” he said carefully. She softened at his concern and relented. Jeongguk muted every app and put the device on DND before turning to her with a soft smile.

“Let's go out.”

“Now? Where?” she asked curiously as it was already night time.

“Dinner. There’s a sushi place I like. I want to take you.” she smiled at the flirty look he gave her. She shook her head in amusement at his antics, getting flustered as he made a show of wooing her.

“Arasseo.” He giggled at her agreeance, and they went into they got up and got dressed for their night out.

The sushi place wasn’t that far from their hotel, a 20-minute walk that allowed them to talk and laugh along with one another. Jeongguk was completely entranced with his girlfriend as she babbled excitedly about her trip, as if he had not already known with the way he kept up with her events on social media.

However, he was brought out of his moment of peace when he caught glimpse of a small group as they approached the restaurant.

He went quiet, instincts on high alert as surveyed the group that was gathered near the entrance of the restaurant. There was 5 of them, 4 women and a man, that fidgeted nervously as they approached the entrance.

To anyone else they would’ve passed them off as a simple group of friends that were loitering outside of the restaurant after eating, not to him.

Jeongguk noted the way they each clutched their phones to themselves as they passed, the back cameras facing the couple as they passed. They both wore masks, concealing their faces but it didn’t matter, anyone that knew them, especially him he would be easily recognizable.

His sweet girl was oblivious to the suspicious nature of the group but noticed the way her boyfriend stiffened as they passed the threshold of the restaurant.

“What’s wrong baby?” Jeongguk brought her into his side more on instinct at her question, while they followed the hostess to their private room.

“Wait” he replied softly as they entered the room that would house them both. Y/N stared at him with her brows furrowed as she sat, confused at his shift in demeanor.

Jeongguk took his mask off and pulled out his phone with an angry sigh.

“Jay. What’s wrong?” He looked up at her question, expression softening as to not worry her. He knew she would be though, so he grabbed her hand softly before speaking.

“That group outside...I think they're press.” Her eyes widened at her words, and Jeongguk hated the slight twinge of fear that flashed in her gaze as she quickly composed.

“But they might not be right? Let’s not worry about it” she said nervously. Jeongguk sighed, knowing that their night was already ruined, he would protect her though, no matter what.

He took his hand from hers and alerted his team that came with him about the situation at hand, knowing that they would handle whatever was to come.

“Let’s get our food to go ok?” He suggested and felt annoyed at the press with the way his sweet girl slumped her shoulders slightly at his words, but she understood.

She had wanted to spend some time with him, a nice date like a normal couple but was acutely aware of their positions. As her popularity grew to staggering heights, the normalcy she had been accustomed to was being weathered away each day.

She was logical though, she understood that it was the price of her success, but still, she was only human and she hated the idea that moments like these would be a rarity with the man she loved.

She smiled tiredly at him and took in the way his eyes widened in slight distress at the sight of her dejection.

“Ok.” Jeongguk leaned across the table kissed her forehead softly after her reply. He promised to himself that he would make it up to her, he didn’t know how yet but he would no matter the lengths he would need to go through to make it happen.

About 20 minutes after, they had their food in hand and Jeongguk felt a little better at her excitement over the food. He had gotten a call from his bodyguard that they had brought a car for them to leave, so they made there departure.

As they exited, Jeongguk’s happy mood dissipated instantly as they were bombarded with the press.

“Jay...” Y/N said with wide eyes at the flashing lights and clamoring of people that were pushing mics in their faces.

Jeongguk moved quickly as he clutched her hand, keeping her behind him as he pushed through the crowd angrily. Everything was moving too fast.

Two of his bodyguards got into action, protecting him on instinct.

“Get her!” he barked at them.

They got into action and used their bodies to protect his girl and to get her in the car. Jeongguk felt relief for a singular moment before it was dashed away when someone made a grab at her from behind. He didn’t hesitate as he kicked the hand out of the hand away.

“Get the fuck out of the way!!” he cursed loudly as he finally made it into the car before his guard shut the door behind him.

He turned to his girl who breathed heavily and tried to compose herself. He was fucking pissed.

“Look at me” he said to her softly, grabbing her face softly to turn her to him. Y/N felt heavy with emotion, her nerves going haywire and all it took was for her to look the man to calm her as he assessed her, checking if she was injured anywhere.

“I’m fine” she assured, the words doing little to calm the murderous look in his eye. “Baby, I am ok” she said with a soft smile, reaching forward and pecking his lips.

As she moved, Jeongguk pulled her back to him and kissed her softly, more than the meagre peck she had given. She sighed against his lips, enjoying having him close, before pulling away and giving him a small smile. He returned it and brought her into his embrace, caressing her head as she melted in his arms.

Y/N had already undressed from her outfit, it was casual, but she couldn’t help but fee; saddened at how the night turned out as she undid her makeup.

She didn’t blame her boyfriend, she couldn’t, and she understood that this was the price of fame, but still it annoyed her greatly that they couldn’t even have this one fucking date without being bombarded.

She thought about how angry Jeongguk had gotten, never seeing the crazed look he had in his eyes before, and maybe something was wrong with her but instead of feeling scared she felt nothing but loved. He had protected her amidst the chaos just like he said he would, and now he was on a very heated call with his manager.

She mulled over the night in her mind and knew that there was no turning back. The simple thought of not having him in her life pressed a crushing weight on her heart, if this was the cost of their union that she would pay it. The thought settled over her and filled her with a deep sense of clarity as she exited the bathroom.

Jeongguk looked to her while still on the phone and relaxed his shoulders when she gave him a small smile. He was glad that she was unharmed and felt a deep sense of pride at how well she was taking all of it.

He said his goodbyes to his manager as she set up sat on the floor in front of the table that had their food. He made his way to her and sat down, their knees touching.

“I’m sorry about tonight” he said softly.

“Why? It isn’t your fault” she responded with a soft smile.

“I know, but it’s the principle. The fucking press! I just wanted to take you to a nice restaurant.” she giggled as he spoke with a pout, like a child complaining about not having their way.

“Yah. Why are you laughing?” he said with laughter of his own.

“Cause you’re adorable!” she said with a snicker.

“Adorable? Yah!” he complained with faux offence. She laughed at his reaction, unable to contain the symphony of giggles from leaving her mouth. Jeongguk laughed along with her in complete awe at how well she was handling it, that was when he had an idea.

“We should do a live.” Y/N sputtered and looked at him with wide eyes.

“Huh?” he chuckled at her reaction.

“A live. On Weverse. If they want to be all up in our business, then it should be on our terms. What do you say?” he reasoned. She thought it over for a moment and smiled with a scoff, shaking her head slightly in disbelief.

The shrine estate rises out of the cedar-dark mountain like something the forest tried to swallow and failed. Red pillars. Black lacquer. Gold leaf catching the afternoon sun in thin, violent flashes. The air is dense with incense, old blood, rain-soaked wood, and the iron heaviness of cursed energy folded into every lintel and threshold. Men kneel before the entrance with their foreheads nearly touching the stones. Women lower their eyes so quickly the motion looks practiced into the bones.

You do not kneel fast enough.

That is the first mistake.

Or the first invitation.

Inside, the hall is enormous and dim. Silk banners hang from the beams. Bronze lamps burn with a low, steady flame. The floor is polished dark enough to catch reflections in broken pieces: bowed heads, trembling hands, the pale flash of a priest’s sleeve, your own gold rings warming against your fingers as your thumb moves once over the smooth edge of your nail.

At the far end of the hall, Ryomen Sukuna sits as if the room was built only to explain his scale. Even seated, he makes standing men seem temporary.

Four arms. One pair of eyes narrowed in amused disinterest. The other half-lidded, watching nothing and everything. Robes hanging loose over a body that looks less dressed than draped in conquest. The dark markings across his skin seem almost ceremonial until you understand they are not decoration. Nothing on Sukuna is decoration.

And beneath the parted layers at his abdomen, the second mouth shifts.

Not much.

Enough.

A slow movement behind the loosened silk. The edge of teeth. A glimpse of tongue dragging once over the inner curve of the mouth as if the rest of him has decided silence does not mean stillness.

Every person around you looks away from it.

You do not.

Not because you are unafraid. Fear is sensible. Fear is information. Your body knows exactly what it is looking at: something once human, now so far beyond the word that calling him a man feels like etiquette rather than truth. The air around him presses against your skin with the low, oppressive density of an oncoming storm. Your pulse changes. Your palms warm. The fine hairs at the back of your neck rise beneath the heavy fall of your dark curls.

But you do not pretend you did not see.

Sukuna notices.

Of course he does.

His upper mouth curves.

“That one has eyes,” he says.

The lord beside you makes a small, strangled sound and lowers himself further, as if he might escape consequence by becoming part of the floor.

You keep your gaze steady.

“Bring her closer.”

No one touches you.

They are clever enough for that, at least.

You walk the length of the hall under the weight of every horrified stare, the layered hem of your dark robe whispering against the polished wood. Your curls are half-pinned to keep the mass from your face, but the humidity has loosened them, dense ringlets springing free against your throat and collarbones. Gold warms your ears, your wrists, the base of your fingers. The only sound you allow yourself is the quiet click of your rings as you fold your hands in front of you and stop before the dais.

Sukuna looks down at you.

Everyone expects you to kneel.

You bow instead.

Low enough to acknowledge power.

Not low enough to surrender personhood.

A silence opens in the room so wide it feels like a second door.

Then Sukuna laughs.

Not loudly. Not yet.

Just enough to reveal teeth.

“Interesting,” he says, which is the first dangerous thing he ever gives you.

Interest.

— ❖ —

I. THE SHAPE OF WORSHIP

Sukuna is used to worship.

Not devotion.

That distinction matters, though no one around him seems brave enough to know it.

Worship is easy. Worship trembles. Worship lowers its eyes, brings the food, opens the gates, sends the sons, hides the daughters, and pretends terror becomes sacred when dressed in ritual language. Worship asks nothing of him except that he remain monstrous enough to justify their fear.

He finds it boring.

He accepts offerings the way fire accepts dry wood: without gratitude, without surprise, without affection for the hand that feeds it. Silk. Gold. Meat. Rice wine. Poetry. Heads in lacquered boxes. Priests chanting until their voices crack. Courtiers praising his divinity while trying very hard not to look at the dried blood beneath his nails.

None of it reaches him.

Why would it?

Fear has no flavor after the first thousand mouths.

You are not fearless. That is what catches him. You are afraid and still exact. Afraid and still present in your own body. Afraid and still capable of looking at him like he is not a god, not a rumor, not a prayer with teeth, but a thing in the room with mass, heat, appetite, and limits he has never been forced to name.

The first time a priest calls you blessed for being chosen by him, you look at the man for so long his smile starts to rot at the edges.

“Chosen by whom?” you ask.

The priest blinks. “By Lord Sukuna.”

“No,” you say, your voice even. “He noticed. That is not the same thing.”

The priest looks as if you have just placed your hand inside a flame to see whether the fire has manners.

Sukuna, seated behind the silk screen with two arms folded and one hand lifting a shallow cup of wine to his mouth, smiles without looking at either of you.

“Careful,” he says.

You turn your gaze toward the screen. His silhouette is monstrous through the silk: too many arms, shoulders broad enough to make the carved pillars seem ornamental, the faint movement of the mouth beneath his robes visible only when the lamps catch him from below.

“Was that instruction or concern?”

The priest goes white.

Sukuna laughs properly this time.

The sound rolls through the chamber, low and pleased, and every servant in the room remembers something urgent elsewhere.

“Neither,” he says. “Anticipation.”

That is how most conversations with him feel at first: a blade laid flat on a table, not yet lifted, but impossible to ignore. He tests the edge of you because he tests everything. Your temper. Your fear. Your silence. The line between respect and submission. He says things no civilized man would say, not because he lacks manners but because manners bore him when they are only another mask for fear.

“They sent you as tribute,” he says one evening while you sit at a low table cataloguing old shrine texts, your fingers stained faintly with ink.

“They sent me as a negotiation.”

“You believe there is a difference?”

“I believe men call women offerings when they want the violence of the exchange to sound beautiful.”

His gaze lifts from the scroll in his hand. For one long breath, all four eyes are on you.

“And what should I call you?”

Your thumb moves once over the gold ring at your index finger.

“By my name.”

A lesser man would have taken offense.

Sukuna takes interest.

Unfortunately for everyone, interest is far more dangerous.

— ❖ —

II. THE APPETITE THAT NOTICES

Sukuna notices everything.

Not gently. Not kindly. Not with the softened attention of a lover trying to make himself worthy of trust.

He notices like appetite notices ripeness.

Your body learns this quickly. The exactness of his attention has weight. It is not the same as being watched by court men, whose gazes slide and snag, reducing you to the parts of you they think they understand. Sukuna looks with total comprehension and no shame. Your rings. Your throat. The way your shoulders lift almost imperceptibly when incense smoke grows too thick. The way your fingers seek texture when the hall becomes too loud. The way your deep brown eyes sharpen before your mouth says something dangerous.

He learns the architecture of your resistance before anyone else understands you are resisting.

During evening rituals, when the priests chant too long and the bronze bells ring with a piercing, metallic vibration that settles painfully behind your eyes, Sukuna’s gaze cuts to you from across the hall. You have not moved. You have not spoken. Your face is arranged into perfect composure, but your thumb is pressing into the center of your palm, hard enough that the skin around your nail has gone pale.

His upper mouth smiles.

One hand lifts.

The bells stop.

The priests stop with them, all at once, like birds struck silent from the sky.

Sukuna does not look away from you.

“Continue without the noise,” he says.

No one asks why.

You do not thank him.

Later, when the hall has emptied and the lanterns have been lowered, he finds you near the outer corridor where rain drips from the eaves into the dark garden stones. The air smells of wet cedar, moss, and smoke. Your curls have swollen in the damp, heavy black ringlets escaping their pins to brush against your cheek and throat. You are turning one gold ring around your finger with slow, deliberate pressure, your breathing carefully even.

“You dislike bells,” he says.

“I dislike pain delivered as ceremony.”

His smile widens. “A dangerous complaint in a shrine.”

“Then perhaps the shrine should improve its manners.”

The mouth at his stomach shifts beneath his robes.

You hear it before you see it: the wet, slow drag of tongue over teeth.

Your gaze drops.

Only for a moment.

Long enough.

Sukuna’s amusement changes shape.

“You look at it as if it has offended you.”

“It has not done anything to me.”

“Yet.”

“That was not a correction.”

A laugh moves through him, quieter than before. Pleased. Irritated. The two are often indistinguishable with him.

Most people behave strangely around that second mouth. Some pretend not to see it. Some stare with religious horror. Some become fascinated in the stupid, foolish way of people who believe monstrosity exists to entertain them. You do none of those things. You acknowledge it as part of him without making it the whole of him.

That, too, catches his attention.

Sukuna is used to being feared as spectacle.

He is less used to being studied as fact.

The next morning, the incense in the hall is different. Less sweet. Less cloying. Sandalwood cut with something darker and cleaner, smoke rising in thin, disciplined lines instead of thick clouds that coat the back of the throat. The bells are moved farther from the inner chamber. A servant brings tea brewed strong enough to clear the bitterness from your mouth without asking who ordered it.

No one says these changes are for you.

Sukuna is not sentimental enough to announce care when control can wear the same clothing.

But when you lift the cup and find the tea exactly right, you look toward the dais.

He is already watching.

“Better?”

One word. Care stripped of softness until only precision remains.

You take another sip.

“Yes.”

The second mouth smiles first.

— ❖ —

III. FAVOR IS NOT SAFETY

Being favored by Sukuna is not the same thing as being safe.

It is important to understand this quickly.

His attention protects you from ordinary hands. No courtier touches your sleeve without permission. No priest corrects your posture. No servant attempts to move your belongings, your writing tools, your combs, the copper bowl where your rings rest when ink work requires bare fingers. One man makes the mistake of calling you his lord’s possession, and by sunrise, every mouth in the estate has learned a new grammar.

No one says possession around you again.

No one says why.

That is the protection.

The danger is that everyone now knows you are protected by the worst thing in the room.

You feel it in the corridors: the lowered eyes, the halted conversations, the way women glance at you with pity and envy tangled together so tightly neither emotion can breathe. Men do not look at you with entitlement anymore. They look at you as if standing too close might place them inside a story with a very short ending.

At first, Sukuna finds your irritation amusing.

“You preferred being handled like unclaimed meat?” he asks.

You are seated across from him in the smaller western chamber, sorting through a stack of old letters sealed in cracked red wax. The room is warmer than the rest of the estate, lit by low lamps and the late afternoon sun. Your hair is loose today, heavy curls spilling over one shoulder and catching on the gold chain at your neck. One of your rings keeps clicking faintly against the lacquered writing box each time you reach for another letter.

“I preferred having a name before your violence gave me a title.”

His eyes sharpen.

You continue before he can decide whether to be entertained or offended. “Do not make my name another warning people pass between their teeth.”

“It should be a warning.”

“Not if it stops being mine.”

Silence.

Sukuna leans back, one arm draped over the carved armrest, another hand holding his cup, a third resting loose against his thigh. His fourth hand is entirely still, fingers curved near the mouth at his stomach as if the body itself is listening.

“You object to being untouchable?”

“I object to being turned into a shrine no one can approach without dying.”

“You are very attached to approach.”

“I am attached to choice.”

His expression does not change, but the room does. You have learned to feel the shifts in him before anyone else sees them: the slight increase in pressure, the air tightening around the lamps, the way the silence gathers itself at the edges like a court waiting for judgment. Sukuna does not enjoy being corrected. He enjoys being challenged, which is different and far more dangerous.

“Choice,” he repeats.

The word sounds almost vulgar in his mouth. Or holy. With Sukuna, the distinction depends on how close you are standing to the teeth.

“Yes.”

“And if your choice is foolish?”

“Then it remains mine.”

His smile comes slowly.

You have learned by now that his smile is not reassurance. It is weather.

“You speak as if sovereignty is a thing the world permits.”

“No,” you say. “I speak as if it is a thing I will not hand over simply because the world is rude enough to demand it.”

For a moment, Sukuna only looks at you.

Then he laughs.

The sound is low, rich, and deeply unkind to everyone in the world except, perhaps, you.

“There it is,” he says.

“There what is?”

“The part of you they should have hidden better before bringing you to me.”

Your mouth tightens.

“They did not bring me to you.”

Sukuna’s gaze lowers to your hands, to the ring turning once around your finger.

“No,” he says, and the quiet of his agreement is almost worse than argument. “They did not.”

— ❖ —

IV. THE MOUTH BENEATH SILK

The mouth at his stomach is not metaphor.

It is not symbol.

It is not an ornament added to make the monster more legible.

It is appetite made visible.

You become aware of it the way one becomes aware of fire in a room: first as danger, then as heat, then as something with rules. It moves when he is amused. Goes still when he is listening. Opens slightly when blood is in the air, or when wine touches his tongue, or when your defiance has pleased some old, terrible part of him he refuses to name.

He does not hide it from you.

Of course not.

Hiding would imply shame, and Sukuna does not have a theology that allows for shame.

The first time he lets you stand close enough to see it clearly, the hour is late and the estate is quiet except for rain striking the eaves. He sits in the inner chamber with his robes loosened, one knee bent, two arms resting across it while another hand pours wine into a shallow cup. The final hand rests near the parted silk at his abdomen, fingers idle, almost lazy.

That laziness is a lie.

Everything about him is aware.

You are there because he summoned you to read a letter from a court official whose handwriting is either intentionally elaborate or actively hostile to the concept of communication. Sukuna listens for perhaps three sentences before growing bored with politics and interested in the way you pronounce contempt without changing your tone.

“Come closer,” he says.

You look up from the letter.

“Why?”

His smile widens. “Because I said so.”

“That is an explanation for obedience, not purpose.”

For one breath, the room holds still.

Then Sukuna laughs, the sound scraping low through the chamber.

“You want purpose?”

“I prefer knowing what I am walking toward.”

“Me.”

“Too vague.”

The mouth at his stomach opens.

Slowly.

Teeth first. Then the dark, wet movement of a tongue dragging across them with obscene patience. Your pulse changes despite your best effort, a single hard beat against the base of your throat, and every eye on Sukuna’s body notices it.

Then the lower mouth speaks.

“Closer.”

The word is rougher than the voice above. Lower. Less amused. Appetite dragged through a mouth not made for courtly language.

Your breath catches once.

Sukuna’s upper smile widens.

“There,” he murmurs, his own voice almost lazy by comparison. “Purpose.”

You do not move closer.

His amusement sharpens.

“Afraid?”

“Yes.”

The honest answer interests him more than denial would have.

“And yet you do not retreat.”

“Fear is not the same as refusal.”

His eyes darken.

“Then offer me your hand.”

“No.”

The word enters the room cleanly.

No flinch. No apology. No decorative softness to make it easier for him to tolerate.

Sukuna goes very still.

The danger in him rises so quickly that any sensible person would drop to the floor and beg forgiveness before the next breath.

You remain standing.

Your heart is beating too hard. Your mouth has gone dry. A curl has slipped loose from its pin and clings damply to the side of your neck, but you do not lift a hand to move it. You will not fidget where he can mistake nervous motion for surrender.

Then Sukuna smiles.

“No,” he repeats, as if tasting the word.

“Yes.”

“You deny me?”

“I correct you.”

His laughter is sudden and enormous.

The lamps tremble.

Somewhere beyond the screen, a servant drops something ceramic and immediately decides prayer is the only remaining profession.

“Correct me, then.”

You breathe in once through your nose.

“Ask.”

Sukuna looks at you for a long, terrible moment.

No one tells him to ask. No one tells calamity to knock before entering. No one puts grammar around his appetite and expects to remain whole.

You do.

Because some part of you understands, even then, that if he wanted something empty, he could have chosen anyone already afraid enough to disappear.

The air between you tightens.

Then, slowly, Sukuna extends one hand, palm upward.

“Will you give me your hand?”

The question is rough.

Unpracticed.

Almost ugly with effort.

That is why you believe it.

You cross the room and place your hand in his.

He does not pull.

That is the first mercy of him.

He lets your hand rest there as its own independent decision before his fingers close around yours. His skin is hot. His hand closes around yours with room left over, heat and pressure and scale turning your own bones briefly unfamiliar. His grip is careful in a way that would be laughable if it did not cost him so visibly. Another hand comes up beneath your wrist, supporting the weight of you with an attention so exact it makes the back of your neck prickle.

The mouth beneath his ribs moves.

Your breath catches.

Sukuna hears it.

His eyes remain on your face as the tongue touches your palm.

Not obscene. Not yet.

Just a slow, deliberate drag over the center of your hand, warm and wet and unmistakably alive. The sensation jolts through you before you can decide what name to give it. Your fingers tense, but you do not pull away.

The upper mouth smiles.

The lower mouth tastes your pulse.

You look him directly in the eyes.

“Enough.”

He stops.

Immediately.

That is the second mercy.

And the first lesson.

— ❖ —

V. THE TERMS OF THE OFFERING

Sukuna has taken many things.

Land. Names. Lives. Shrines. Bodies. Devotion pressed out of people like juice from overripe fruit. He is not a man who has ever needed permission from the world. The world has never been foolish enough to imagine he cared.

That is what makes your consent so irritating to him at first.

It creates delay.

A threshold.

A place where his will does not immediately become reality.

He finds this offensive for approximately three days.

Then he finds it fascinating.

It begins with small things. He reaches for your chin to turn your face toward him, and your hand closes around his wrist before the touch lands.

“Ask,” you say.

His gaze drops to your fingers around his wrist. You are not strong enough to stop him. Both of you know this. That is not the point. Your hand is not a barricade. It is a boundary marker.

Sukuna smiles in a way that makes the guards outside the chamber suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.

“And if I do not?”

“Then whatever you take will tell you nothing.”

That reaches him.

Not morally.

Do not mistake him.

Sukuna is not softened by the ethical beauty of your position. He is not redeemed by the revelation that other people are sovereign beings with interior lives as vivid as his own. He has known that for longer than most men survive and remained exactly what he is.

No, what reaches him is more dangerous.

You make him curious.

Fear is easy. Obedience is useful. Worship is plentiful. But a yes that could have been no — a yes that arrives by choice, with its own breath and weight and heat — that is something else entirely.

Sukuna is an appetite intelligent enough to understand quality.

He begins to ask because the answer tastes better when it is not forced.

“May I touch your hair?” he asks one evening, the question delivered with the faintly displeased tone of a king submitting documents to an office he does not respect.

You look up from your scroll.

“Why?”

“Because one curl has been caught in your earring for the last twelve breaths, and watching you ignore it has become tedious.”

Your hand lifts immediately, but he catches your wrist before you can reach it.

Then stops.

The halt is visible. Deliberate. The old instinct interrupted by the new rule.

You look at his hand around your wrist.

His mouth tightens.

“May I?”

It is still not soft.

It is still Sukuna.

The question sounds like it has been dragged through his teeth by force.

You smile anyway.

“Yes.”

He frees the curl with two hands, which is deeply unnecessary and exactly the point. One hand steadies the heavy gold hoop at your ear. Another separates the dense, springing strand from the delicate clasp. A third hand gathers the loose mass of your curls away from your throat, his fingers disappearing into the weight of them with a focus that makes your breathing change.

His fourth hand remains at his side.

Still.

Waiting.

You notice.

He notices you noticing.

“You are pleased with yourself,” he says.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“I am pleased with you.”

All four of his eyes fix on you.

The room changes.

Not violently. More dangerously than that.

Quietly.

For one suspended second, you have the full attention of something that has been worshipped for its ruin and never praised for restraint.

Then Sukuna releases your hair and leans back.

“Careful,” he says.

You reach for your ink brush again.

“Was that instruction or concern?”

His smile returns, slow and sharp.

“Both.”

— ❖ —

VI. THE BODY AS SHRINE

Sukuna does not worship you.

Worship implies kneeling, and he kneels for nothing.

He attends.

That is worse.

His attention is not soft, but it is total. When he touches you, he does so with the awful precision of a man who has spent centuries taking bodies apart and has decided, for reasons known only to himself, to learn how one particular body should be held together.

Your softness fascinates him. Not because it is fragile. He has no interest in fragility except as something that breaks well. What catches him is the way your body refuses the sharp lines of the world around him. The warm, full weight of your hips beneath layered silk. The soft give of your stomach when his hand settles there. The way bronze heat gathers under your skin when he looks too long. The way your curls spill over his forearm when one hand cups the back of your neck and another finds the heavy mass of them falling down your back.

He does not make you feel delicate.

He makes you feel perceived.

There is a difference.

Delicate things are handled because they might break.

Perceived things are handled because someone has bothered to learn their exact weight.

Sukuna learns yours.

He learns which fabrics make your shoulders tense and which ones make your hands smooth unconsciously over your own thighs because the texture pleases you. He learns that gold calms you more than pearls because pearls feel too cold, too pale, too much like someone else’s idea of refinement. He learns that incense smoke must be thin, that bells must remain distant, that too many overlapping voices can make your face go empty even while your posture remains perfect.

He does not comfort you like a gentle man.

He removes the problem.

A musician plays too sharply during a late feast, plucking at the strings with a bright, needling precision that makes pain gather behind your eyes. Your hand stills against your cup. You blink once too slowly.

Sukuna turns his head.

“Stop.”

The music dies mid-note.

No explanation follows.

No apology is requested.

He simply reaches for a piece of fruit from the tray beside him, cuts it with one sharp nail, and places the clean slice in front of you without looking directly at your face.

Everyone in the room pretends not to see.

You eat the fruit.

It is perfectly ripe.

Later, when the hall has emptied and the moon has turned the garden stones pale, you find him waiting by the open veranda. He is not looking at the garden. He is looking at you.

“You cannot keep silencing entire rooms because one sound bothers me,” you say.

“I can.”

“You should not.”

“A different argument.”

You exhale through your nose, fighting the edge of a smile because he is insufferable and correct in the most irritating order.

“Ask first.”

His eyes narrow.

“If it concerns me,” you clarify. “Ask first.”

“You wanted the sound to continue?”

“No.”

“Then my solution was correct.”

“Your solution removed my discomfort and my agency in the same breath.”

That makes him quiet.

Not ashamed. Do not be naive.

But attentive.

The stomach mouth shifts beneath his robe, tongue pressing once against closed teeth, as if some lower appetite has been made to wait and dislikes the lesson.

Sukuna watches you with all four eyes.

“You demand very much for someone with so little power.”

“No,” you say. “I demand very little. That is why you keep hearing it.”

He smiles.

Slow.

Devastating.

“Come here.”

You do not move.

His smile widens because he knows exactly what he has done.

The pause stretches.

Then, with the air of a king lowering himself into an indignity he has chosen solely because conquest would be less entertaining, Sukuna says, “Will you come here?”

You step into his reach.

One hand settles at your waist. Another lifts to your hair. A third touches your wrist, thumb moving over the place where your pulse beats hard beneath the skin. The fourth remains open, palm-up, waiting until you decide whether to place your hand in it.

You do.

The mouth at his stomach opens slightly.

Not to frighten.

Not this time.

To breathe.

You feel the warm, damp exhale against the layered silk at your middle, and your body goes very still. Sukuna feels the change immediately. Every hand pauses. Even the mouth beneath his ribs stills, tongue held behind the teeth.

“No?” he asks.

The word is blunt. Almost ugly.

Perfect.

You look up at him.

“Not no.”

His eyes darken.

“Slowly,” you say.

The sound that moves through him is not quite laughter.

It is darker than that.

Pleased.

Hungry.

Restrained.

“Slowly, then.”

You are the one who moves first.

Not because he has permitted it. Not because the room expects you to reward his restraint with softness. Because the choice is yours, and you want the shape of that choice to have a body.

Your hand lifts to his face.

Every part of him stills.

The upper mouth. The lower mouth. All four hands. Even the air around him seems to draw itself tight, waiting to learn whether this is another correction or an offering with its eyes open.

Your thumb touches the edge of the marking along his jaw. His skin is hot beneath your fingers, inhumanly alive, and the power under it hums against your palm like a storm held behind a door. Sukuna does not lean into the touch.

He waits.

That restraint, more than anything, decides you.

You rise onto your knees and kiss him.

Not deeply. Not softly enough to be mistaken for apology. Your mouth presses to his once, firm and brief, a deliberate seal placed over the command he had swallowed and remade into a question.

When you draw back, his eyes have gone very still.

The mouth at his stomach exhales against the silk between you, warm and damp and almost silent.

“Again,” it says.

Your gaze drops to it.

Then back to his face.

“Ask properly.”

Sukuna’s smile arrives slowly, with teeth.

“Will you?”

This time, when you kiss him, his hands close around you all at once: one at your waist, one at your wrist, one at the back of your neck, one open at your spine until you lean into it yourself. He does not devour the answer from your mouth. He receives it, which is worse, because receiving requires him to admit there was something he did not already own.

For Sukuna, that is tenderness.

Not softness.

Never softness.

Tenderness with teeth still visible in the mouth.

— ❖ —

VII. THE DARKNESS IN THE ROOM

Sukuna’s darkness is not hidden.

That is what makes it different from other men.

Other men tuck their cruelty behind court language, family duty, religious obligation, strategy, grief, wounded pride, or the thousand soft fabrics civilization offers to anyone looking to dress violence in prettier clothing. Sukuna has no need. He is appetite without apology. Violence without decoration. A shrine built on the honest premise that blood has always been part of worship, no matter how delicately priests wash the floor afterward.

He kills.

He eats.

He ruins.

He accepts terror as tribute and finds most human morality too small to hold his interest.

Loving him does not change that.

That must be understood, or the whole thing becomes a lie.

There are mornings when you pass through the outer courtyard and the stones have been washed too recently. There are evenings when servants replace the lamps in silence because the ones from the night before burned through the smoke of something no incense could disguise. There are men who arrive at the estate full of titles and leave as warnings. There are gifts placed before Sukuna that you do not look at closely because your body already knows what shape they are beneath the silk.

He does not ask you to condone it.

He would find that pathetic.

He does not ask you to look away either.

He lets you see.

That may be the most terrible intimacy he offers.

One night, after a delegation insults him by assuming flattery can conceal an assassination attempt, the estate becomes very quiet. Not peaceful. Quiet in the way forests are quiet after a predator has finished moving through them. You are in the inner chamber when he returns, the hem of his robe darkened, one hand streaked with blood that is not his.

The lower mouth is open.

Its teeth are red.

You look at it.

Then at his face.

“Does it disgust you?” he asks.

There is amusement in his voice, but something beneath it is sharper. Not insecurity. Sukuna does not fear your disgust. He is curious whether it will make you lie.

You answer carefully.

“Yes.”

The chamber stills.

His smile comes like a blade leaving its sheath.

“And yet you remain.”

“Disgust is not departure.”

“No?”

“No more than fear is refusal.”

His eyes hold yours.

You step closer, not because the blood does not matter, but because pretending it is the only truth in the room would be its own kind of falsehood.

“I will not make you clean in order to love you,” you say. “But I will not call the blood beautiful to make loving you easier.”

For a moment, Sukuna does not speak.

Then he laughs softly.

“You think love should be easy?”

“No.”

You reach for the basin near the door and dip a cloth into the warm water left there by a servant with excellent survival instincts.

“I think it should be honest.”

You offer him the cloth.

He looks at it.

Then at you.

“You intend to tend me?”

“I intend to hand you a cloth. What you do with it is your own affair.”

His laughter shakes the lamps.

But he takes it.

That is the thing about loving Sukuna: there is no clean place to stand. There is only the exact place you choose, knowing what the floor is made of.

Some nights, you lie beside him while the estate sleeps and feel the weight of his hand across your stomach, heavy and hot through the thin silk of your robe. One hand in your curls. One at your hip. One resting open near your own, not touching until you decide. The mouth beneath his ribs quiet, closed, breathing slowly against your side.

You are safe.

And the world is not.

Both truths share the room.

Sukuna does not become good because you love him.

He does not become gentle in any civilized sense. He does not renounce ruin, does not learn mercy as doctrine, does not discover some hidden human softness waiting beneath the monstrous exterior like a reward for your patience.

No.

He remains exactly what he is.

A calamity.

A sovereign appetite.

An altar with teeth.

The difference is that, with you, the teeth know how to wait.

— ❖ —

VIII. THE GOD WHO ASKS

The first time Sukuna asks without being reminded, you almost miss it.

It is late. Rain moves over the roof in a soft, endless hush, and the inner chamber is lit by a single oil lamp burning low in a bronze dish. You are seated on the floor with your back against the dais, reading through a damaged scroll while Sukuna lounges behind you like some terrible household god who has grown bored with being feared for the evening.

Two of his hands are occupied with peeling fruit. One rests near your shoulder, not touching. The fourth holds a cup of wine he has not bothered to drink.

Your curls are loose, heavy from the damp air, spilling down your back and over one shoulder. Every so often, a ringlet brushes the paper and smears the ink you are trying to read. You make a small sound of irritation after the third time it happens.

Behind you, Sukuna shifts.

“May I?”

You freeze.

The question is so simple, so unadorned, that for a moment your mind refuses to process it as his.

You turn your head.

Sukuna is looking at your hair, not your face. His expression is mildly annoyed, as if the curl has personally insulted the efficiency of the evening. But his hand remains suspended in the air, waiting.

Actually waiting.

Your throat tightens.

“Yes.”

He gathers your hair back from the scroll with careful hands, separating the thick mass into one heavy fall over your shoulder. His fingers do not snag. He has learned the weight and spring of it by now, learned where to be firm and where patience is required. The lower mouth remains still beneath his robe, as if even that appetite understands the quiet of this moment belongs to something else.

You look back down at the scroll.

The letters swim slightly.

Sukuna notices, because Sukuna notices everything.

“You are moved by very small things,” he says.

“No,” you reply, voice steadying. “I am moved when large things choose restraint.”

The silence after that is deep.

You hear the rain. The lamp. The slow breath of the mouth at his stomach. Your own pulse.

Then Sukuna’s hand settles at the back of your neck.

Not possessive.

Not claiming.

Simply present.

“You have made a ritual of denying me,” he says.

“You have made a ritual of asking anyway.”

His fingers flex once against your skin.

“It amuses me.”

“I know.”

“It pleases me.”

You go very still.

That is closer to truth than he usually comes without drawing blood around it first.

Sukuna leans down, all four eyes on you now, the heat of him surrounding your back like a storm brought indoors.

“Do you know why?”

You turn enough to meet his gaze.

“Because fear is boring.”

His smile spreads slowly.

“Because fear is plentiful.”

One hand touches your chin, light enough to be refused. Another remains at your hair. Another rests open beside your knee. The fourth sets the untouched cup of wine aside.

“But your yes,” he says, voice lowering, “has teeth.”

The words settle through you with a heat you refuse to name while he is looking directly at your face.

Sukuna sees that too.

Of course he does.

“Come here,” he murmurs.

You raise one eyebrow.

His mouth curves.

This time, there is no irritation when he corrects himself.

Only hunger.

Only amusement.

Only the terrible patience of a monster learning that the threshold is part of the pleasure.

“Will you come here?”

You close the scroll.

Set it aside.

Then you rise and step into his reach because you choose to, because the choice is yours, because the yes in your body belongs to you before it becomes anything he can taste.

Sukuna receives you like a vow and a feast.

Two hands settle at your waist. One finds the back of your neck. One remains open at your spine, waiting until you lean into it yourself. The mouth at his stomach stays closed, but you feel it breathe against you, warm and patient beneath the layers of silk.

You touch him first.

Your hands lift to his shoulders, then higher, sliding along the marked heat of his neck until your fingers rest at the sharp line of his jaw. Sukuna lets you arrange him. Lets you tilt his face down. Lets the room witness, if the room is foolish enough to keep breathing, that the King of Curses has allowed someone else to choose the angle of his mouth.

You kiss him.

This one is not brief.

It is slow, deliberate, and devastatingly quiet. His upper mouth opens beneath yours with a restraint that feels more dangerous than hunger, because hunger would be easy. Hunger would take. This waits. This learns the shape of what you offer and holds itself still enough not to ruin it.

The lower mouth opens against your middle.

“Chosen,” it says.

The word vibrates through the silk at your stomach, rough and low, less declaration than appetite recognizing the terms.

You break the kiss just enough to breathe.

“Do not confuse chosen with owned.”

His laugh is quiet enough that only you receive it.

“Never,” he says, and because it is Sukuna, the word is both promise and threat. “Owned things are dull.”

That is the closest he comes to tenderness some nights.

Other nights, he comes closer.

In the lowering of the bells before you ask.

In the incense changed without announcement.

In the hand that waits.

In the second mouth that stills the moment your breath catches wrong.

In the way he says your name as if it is not an offering placed before him, but a door he has learned he cannot break without losing the room beyond it.

Heian Sukuna does not love like a man.

He favors like calamity.

He wants like conquest.

He protects like violence given a direction.

But with you, and only with you, he learns that taking is not the same as receiving. He learns that a body forced open tells him nothing. He learns that fear may fill a hall, bend a province, empty a road, and feed a shrine for a hundred years, but it cannot create the one thing he finds himself returning to with increasing, irritated hunger.

Your willing hand.

Your lifted chin.

Your no, clean as a blade.

Your yes, given with teeth.

That is the shape of his devotion: not goodness, not softness, not salvation, but restraint sharpened into ritual. A monster at the altar, learning that the offering is only worth having if it can refuse.

An offering taken is food.

An offering chosen is devotion.

And Sukuna, who has devoured worship by the mouthful and found it wanting, discovers that devotion has a taste he cannot forget.

— bruise / hymn —

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October light spills through the kitchen window, low and amber — the kind that usually makes the room feel held. Kento always liked this hour best when he was home early enough to witness it. He would stand at the counter with his sleeves rolled to the forearm, glasses lowered on his nose, reading something dry and important while the sun turned the edge of his mug gold. He never called the light beautiful. He would only say, “This is a reasonable hour to be home,” which meant the same thing in his mouth.

Not today.

Now the light seems to judge: sharp, unwavering, waiting for you to do something, anything, as if movement could force the day back into sense. Your hands cling to a cold mug of tea. You do not remember making it. You do not remember sitting down. The afternoon faded into this: you stiff at the table, a mug you will not drink from, and a stillness that presses down too heavily to be peace.

The first call goes to voicemail after four rings.

Normal.

He does not answer during work. You know this. You learned the rhythm of his day years ago: windows when he is reachable, hours when his phone stays face down and silent because he is doing what he was called back to do. You know not to call during those hours. You called anyway.

The second call does not ring at all.

You set the phone face down on the table.

Your thumb finds the ring on your index finger and turns it once. Twice. The gold is warm from your skin. The apartment is silent except for the refrigerator, the faint traffic below, and your own breathing: uneven, shallow, betraying the tightness gathering behind your sternum.

The tea is wrong; the light is wrong; even the texture of your sweater is wrong. The cable knit you bought because its weight felt like being held now catches against your skin, every raised pattern turning sharp where it rests against your shoulders. One of your curls has slipped from its clip and keeps brushing the side of your neck, too light to move and too present to ignore. Your jaw tightens. Your shoulders climb. The room becomes a list of small betrayals: the hum of the refrigerator, the cold ceramic beneath your fingers, the chair pressing too firmly into the backs of your thighs.

You sit there.

You turn your ring and wait for your certainty — the sense that something is wrong — to become something more ordinary, something smaller, something you could attribute to a dead battery, a delayed report, a mission running long, some bureaucratic inconvenience Kento would later describe with precise, exhausted disdain.

You wait for the tightness in your sternum to loosen.

It does not.

The ache twists sharper, taut enough to feel in your jaw.

Outside, the sky dims. The amber light withdraws from the kitchen by slow degrees. You watch it go, a hollow settling in your chest. You do not turn on the lamp. Kento would have turned it on before the room became unreasonable. He was always preventing discomfort before it became a problem: light before darkness, food before hunger, the second umbrella by the door before rain had a chance to make its argument.

No one turns on the lamp.

The apartment fills with a darkness that comes when no one acts to stop it.

— ❖ —

The knock comes after nine.

You have not moved.

At some point in the last several hours, you made a decision: stillness. If you do not move, the next thing does not come. If you remain exactly where you are, the world cannot require anything more of you. It is irrational. You know that. Your body does not care. Your body has never been interested in logic when survival is busy rearranging the furniture.

The knock is soft: two knocks, then nothing, then one more, quieter, as though the hand making it has already started to falter.

You stand.

Your legs have been folded under you for so long that blood returning feels like static, hot and needling down your calves. You wait. You require your transitions. Kento understood that. He always gave you the pause before the next thing, the breath between rooms, the silence that was not absence but architecture.

You walk to the door.

Already, you know what is on the other side.

You open it.

Yuuji stands in the hallway.

He is fifteen.

That is the first cruelty, not what he has come to tell you. Not yet. The first cruelty is that he is fifteen and trying to stand like someone older. His clothes are rumpled and smudged, hanging awkwardly on his frame. His eyes are swollen, lids heavy from unshed tears. His jaw is clamped with the desperate determination of someone barely holding back a storm because he thinks collapsing would make him a burden.

You look at him.

He looks at you.

The air pulses, tight with the weight of what is about to be said. You have always known how it shifts when the next sentence will divide everything into before and after.

“Kento.”

You say it quietly, not as a question. Just the name, his first name.

The one that belongs to the kitchen table and the space between his shoulder and jaw, where you press your face when the world is too much and he lets you stay there until it isn’t. The name that belongs to the mug beside the sink, the extra towel folded in thirds, the low sound he makes when he is too tired to answer properly but wants you to know he heard you anyway.

Yuuji’s face breaks like glass: one line first, then the web, then collapse.

The sound that comes out of him is raw and young, replacing the words he came to deliver. Something in you moves before your grief does. You step forward and put your arms around him. He is taller than you, but he folds into you like a child into anyone willing to hold the weight for a second.

He is shaking.

“He told me,” Yuuji says, the words breaking apart against your shoulder. “He told me I’ve got it from here.”

Your hand is on the back of his head.

You are holding a fifteen-year-old boy in your doorway, and your system does what it always does when you are overwhelmed: it goes quiet. Tense, not calm. Never calm. Your pulse pounds in your ears. The quiet is the kind that happens when feeling everything right now would cause irreparable damage.

So you hold Yuuji tighter.

You feel the tremble in his shoulders. You feel how hard he is trying not to fall apart completely. You make sounds — probably words — like breathe, I’ve got you, it wasn’t your fault, and you mean them because it is not his fault. Your own locked chest does not change the truth you are saying to this child who witnessed what happened.

It is not your fault.

It is not your fault.

It is not your fault.

You do not know whether you are saying it to him or to the part of yourself already looking for a place to put the pain.

Eventually, he quiets.

You bring him inside.

You sit him at the kitchen table — Kento’s chair, because yours is by the window, and you cannot sit in his. The choice happens without thought. His chair holds Yuuji carefully, terribly, the way the room now holds every absence as an object.

You fill a glass of water and set it in front of him. He drinks in small sips, both hands wrapped around the glass as if it might steady him. You stand at the counter, hands flat on the cold stone, grounding yourself against something that does not care.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuji says.

You look at him.

His eyes are red. He is so young it makes your throat close.

“You came here,” you say. “That matters.”

He looks at you as if he does not understand how you are standing.

You do not explain.

You call a cab. You walk him downstairs. The building door closes softly behind you. The air outside is cold and smells like October and wet pavement. The world has the audacity to continue. Somewhere, a bicycle bell rings. Someone laughs at the end of the block. A restaurant door opens, spilling warmth and garlic and voices onto the sidewalk.

You send Yuuji away with your hand briefly on his shoulder.

You wait until the car turns the corner.

Then you go back upstairs.

Inside the apartment, you turn the deadbolt. The sound is too final. You stand with your hand on the lock, forehead against the wood, and the space behind you unlit, silent, and full of him.

— ❖ —

The first night is shock, and shock is mercy.

You walk through the apartment as if in a dream: present, technically, but untethered from the physics of the place. Your body knows this space. It has lived here for years alongside his. You moved as two people, building a life around each other’s rhythms until the choreography settled into muscle memory.

You reach for the left side of the bed, pull back the covers, and leave the right side folded for him.

Your hand stops there.

The right side stays neat.

You set your rings on the nightstand — middle finger, index, ring, in the settling sequence. Kento learned that order after watching you do it once. After that, whenever he moved them for cleaning, he put them back the same way. He never mentioned it. He simply noticed, adjusted, and made the knowledge useful.

Then you look at the other nightstand.

His reading glasses are sitting where he always leaves them: slightly crooked, one arm folded against the other, on top of a book he was halfway through. The bookmark is a receipt. He always used receipts.

When you asked why, he said, “Because it’s already there.”

You pick up the glasses and hold them.

They are weightless and warm from the ambient air. The lenses have a faint thumbprint on the left side where he always pushed them up. You used to tease him about it. He would clean them immediately after, faintly offended by the evidence of his own body on an object meant for clarity.

You put them back exactly where they were, exactly how they were.

You get into bed.

His side is cool.

The sheets smell like detergent and, under that, faintly like him: the scent that was never cologne, just skin, soap, and the warmth that wrapped you when he was here, woven through the air. You pull his pillow toward you, press your face into it, breathing in what is left.

You do not cry.

Your system stays in shutdown.

Grief dispenses itself in micro-doses: the glasses, the pillow, the cool sheets, the receipt keeping his place in a book he will never finish. Your hand reaches across the bed to the empty spot where he should be.

Finds nothing.

Stays there anyway.

— ❖ —

The days after are not days; they are intervals.

You move through them like water: slowly, with resistance. You eat because hunger demands it. You shower because your own skin becomes too much and heat resets something. You sleep in pieces. You wake up already reaching. You forget, remember, forget again for one merciful second, then remember so fully the room seems to tilt.

The apartment becomes a museum of his decisions.

The tea is on the top shelf.

The second umbrella is by the door.

The dish towel is folded on the oven handle, in thirds, because that was how he folded things.

There is a container of soup in the freezer labeled in his handwriting: Thursday. You stare at it for a long time before closing the door. You cannot eat it. You cannot throw it away. It remains there, cold and dated, a practical kindness suspended outside time.

You do not move his things.

Moving them would mean deciding where they go now, and that is a future you cannot face. His shoes stay by the entrance. His coat stays on the hook. His mug stays beside yours in the cabinet, handle turned the way he liked it, because he said reaching should not require unnecessary wrist strain.

That is what undoes you one morning: not the bed, not the glasses, but the mug, the handle turned correctly.

You close the cabinet and sit on the kitchen floor.

The sensory world is unmanageable. The sweater from the night Yuuji came is scratchy now, unbearable. You pull it off and sit in a T-shirt, arms wrapped around your knees, rings pressing into your fingers. Pressure is easier to regulate than the pain that chooses you.

You take the rings off.

Line them on the floor.

Middle finger. Index. Ring.

Put them back.

Take them off.

Put them back.

Your phone sits on the nightstand.

His name is still in it. His texts are still there, and they are so ordinary they should not hurt you this much.

Dinner at seven.

I’ll pick you up.

Bring a jacket. The weather is changing.

I was thinking about you.

Sent the morning before Shibuya.

6:14 a.m., while you were still asleep.

He must have typed it in the kitchen, in the early dark, with his coffee, before he left. You can picture it with devastating clarity: his tie not yet tightened, sleeves buttoned, expression serious in the blue-grey light of morning. He would have paused before sending it, thumb hovering for half a second, because unnecessary sentiment still embarrassed him even after all this time.

Then he sent it anyway.

You lock the phone and press it to your sternum.

The screen is smooth and cool and nothing like his hand.

You hold it anyway.

— ❖ —

You find the ring on a Thursday.

It is not dramatic.

You are doing the thing grief eventually forces you to do, which is touch his things — not to organize, not to decide, just to touch. Your hands need texture. Your body needs proof that he existed in more than memory.

You open the closet, run your fingers along his shirts, and press your face into the shoulder of his jacket.

Then the inside pocket, where he kept his phone, wallet, and sometimes a folded note from you because he was sentimental in ways he would never admit without looking mildly inconvenienced by the accusation.

There is a small velvet box.

Your hands stop.

The gold on your fingers feels heavier.

You stand in the closet with the box in your palm and your breath held, and the knowing — the same pattern recognition that has never once been wrong — arrives before you open it.

He was going to ask.

You open the box.

Gold, simple: a band with a hammered texture, warm-toned, the kind you would choose for yourself because he knew. He always knew. This was the endpoint of the arithmetic, the final calculation in a series that started the day he said, “I think we should stop treating this as coincidental,” and ended here, in a box in his jacket, waiting for a question he would never get to ask.

The shutdown breaks.

It breaks the way glass breaks: the single line, the web, the collapse.

The sound that comes out of you starts below the lungs, rises through you, and becomes grief at the surface, but it is closer to a scream underneath. You sit on the closet floor. You hold the box. The ring catches the late afternoon — amber, the same light that was watching you the day he died — and you cry the way you have not allowed yourself to cry since this started.

You cry with your whole chest until the tears are on the ring box and on the jacket that still smells like him.

You cry until you are empty.

Then you are not empty, because grief refills.

But it is different now; it has a shape, a name, a ring in a box, a question that will never be asked, and an answer that has always been yes.

You take the ring out of the box.

You put it on your left hand.

It fits.

Of course it fits.

Because he did the math.

Because he did the math on everything: the tea, the umbrella, the exit strategies, the mug handle, the sweater texture, the pause before transitions, the exact pressure of his hand at your back when the world became too loud. This was no different. This was simply the last in a long series of careful proofs, each one made with you in mind, each one saying the thing he never said beautifully but always, always meant.

— ❖ —

The first time you go outside, the light is an assault.

Inside, the absence has geography. It lives on the right side of the bed, in the closet where his jacket hangs, in the freezer behind the soup you cannot touch. Outside, the absence is everywhere.

You stand on the sidewalk, and the city is happening.

October is turning into November. The air has teeth. You are wearing the jacket because it was by the door and you reached for it before your mind could intervene. The sleeves are too long. The collar smells faintly like him when the wind shifts. Your curls are pinned badly beneath the collar, heavy and uneven, but you cannot make yourself fix them yet. The ring catches the sun — gold on your left hand, hammered texture, warmth against brown skin.

You feel two things at once: the warmth of being chosen and the cold of being chosen by someone who is not here to see you wearing it.

You walk, not far. Just forward.

Your boots hit the pavement, and the sound is ordinary. The air smells like cold and exhaust and someone’s cooking from an open window, and the world is textured in ways you are already cataloging: rough stone, damp leaves, the grain of a wooden bench you pass, the sharp edge of wind against your cheeks.

You are not okay.

You will not be okay for a long time.

But you are outside, and the ring is on your hand, and you have become a person who carries an answer to a question no one will ever ask. The answer is yes, and the answer was always yes, and you will keep saying it — quietly, fiercely, with both hands — for as long as wearing it means something.

You turn the band once with your thumb.

The hammered gold is warm against your skin. It sits beside the familiar sequence of rings that has always made your hands feel assembled, and it belongs there the way he belonged in the kitchen at six in the morning with his coffee and his stillness and the text he sent you while you were sleeping.

I was thinking about you.

You keep walking.

— arithmetic / staying —

thank you for reading. comments, tags, and reblogs are deeply appreciated.

────˚‧୨ᰔ୧‧˚────

Your arms wrap tighter around yourself as another heavy gust of wind breezes by. Effortlessly, it sweeps a discarded plastic fast food wrapper further down the street, away from where you’re standing. Your fingers brush against the numberless goosebumps blossoming on your bare arms. The ends of your hair tickle your skin as it moves with the invisible force, grazing your shoulders and back. 

  Your chin trembles. Though not as vigorously as before, as now it’s only because of the chilled air and not anymore from your tears. Tears that dried with the wind on your cheeks, leaving behind messy streaks of mixed makeup that you spent over an hour perfecting. You can’t wait to wash your face clean.

Numerous cars speed past, music blaring through the open windows, their horns beeping. Across the street, a group of intoxicated girls around your age surrounds a stray cat, cooing and giggling as they snap countless photos, stumbling over themselves but never falling. Nearby on a short brick wall, a couple sits cuddled together, enjoying each other’s company over a shared ice cream cone. The street is littered with people all around, yet you don’t hear anything, just static filling your ears 

The restless thoughts crowding your mind drown out the sounds of the bustling street around you. 

How could such a perfect night have gone so terribly wrong?

How could he do this to you? 

How dare he do this to you, again?

Before your mind could spiral any further into a pit of distress, your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of an approaching car. The hum of the tires sounded so close you couldn't ignore it. When you lift your head to see, the relief of familiarity washes over you. 

An all-black BMW, your best friend’s car, luxurious and sleek, parks in front of you, the passenger-side door only an arm's length away. You sniffle as you release yourself to readjust the strap of your bag over your shoulder. The moment the car is in park, Jimin jumps out, leaving the door open behind him and you exhale a breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding in. 

You don’t know what you were so worried about, maybe because it was well into the late hours of the night and so abrupt. But Jimin always came when you called. He was always there when you needed him, no matter what.

Jimin’s eyebrows were pinched in concern, a frown present on his puffy lips. His strides were swift as he paced over to you, dense blonde hair bouncing in the wind.

 You hated seeing him so upset. More than that, you hated being the cause, which you seemed to have been a lot lately. He didn’t say anything as he approached. Instead, he grabbed the black leather jacket draped over his arm to wrap around your bare shoulders. His scent engulfed you, warm vanilla with a hint of bourbon; it settled your restless nerves. You welcomed the warmth, clutching the shoulders to secure its place over you.

With a gentle guiding hand on your lower back, he leads you over to his car, opening the passenger door for you. Still with no words exchanged between you two, you slide onto the plush, leather seat. The swift movement makes your dress ride up, and you miss the way Jimin’s eyes lock in on the exposed skin of your thighs. As quickly as it comes, he erases the thoughts with a slight shake of his head. 

 As he reaches over you to fasten your seatbelt, you toe off your high heels, strappy black stilettos, pushing them aside to make space on the floor for your aching feet. When the seatbelt clicks, signaling that you’re safely secured, you thank him barely above a whisper, him giving you a closed-lip smile in return. Once Jimin was settled in the driver’s seat, seatbelt buckled, and hands positioned at nine and three o’clock, he turns to you. 

“My place?” He asks, though he already knows the answer. You nod your agreement. 

Typically on nights like these, your best friend coming to your rescue; the car ride to his house was anything but serene. There was so much to say—too much to say. Jimin wanted to know everything, firing off questions so quick your mind could hardly formulate proper answers. And you were just as eager to spill, sparing him no specifics as you filled him in on all the infidelity details your sorry boyfriend never failed to supply. 

Not this time, though. 

The silence in the car was deafening, thick and heavy. Jimin apparently has nothing to say, and well after the night you just had, neither did you. The only noise in the car was the quiet hum of the vents, steadily blowing warm air. Shortly into the drive, you took the liberty to turn the heat on. 

 None of that bothers you, though. What bothers you is that your best friend seems…mildly irritated. He didn’t even need to say anything for you to figure it out; it was practically oozing from him.

His eyes are narrowed, zeroed in on the road, not in a focused way, more like in an "I can’t even look at you right now” way. His posture is stiff, too perfect, as his back presses firmly against his seat. His lips are pressed into a firm line, neither a frown nor a smile.

You can’t understand it. What’s there for him to be irritated about? You were the one who just caught your boyfriend cheating again. Was he upset that you called him to come pick you up? If that’s the case, he should’ve left you right there. You are more than capable of getting yourself a ride. You’re well versed in getting Ubers, and you’ve ridden the bus from time to time. Enough to know how to get home.

Fed up with the seeming silent treatment, you finally speak. “You’re not going to ask me what happened?” 

Did you mean for it to come out as bitter as it did? Maybe, maybe not. But you’re already on edge, and his lack of interest was getting on your last nerve.

There was a pregnant pause as Jimin came to a stoplight, fist tightening on the steering wheel. With a clenched jaw, his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. A telltale sign that something was bothering him. You’re almost unsure if it’s the traffic light that tints his face red or his sheer frustration.

“Do I really need to?” The bite in his words matches yours. He turns to face you full on, the most attention he’s given you the entire ride. With his tone firm and low, he snaps, “How is this time any different from the last? Or even the one before that?”

 Rather than giving him an answer, you swallow the lump in your throat, turning your body away from him to gaze out of the window. The last thing you need is to be reprimanded by your best friend. Especially considering it’s nothing you have not heard before. He should be comforting you, threatening to drive over to Theo’s right now and kick his sorry ass. Of course you would never allow that to happen. You would never want anything bad to happen to your best friend or your shitty boyfriend, but still the sentiment was nice.

You hear Jimin sigh, but he doesn’t say anything else, instead continuing the drive when the light turns green. 

Before long, you make it to Jimin’s neighborhood. With practiced ease, he navigates the familiar streets. Right at the first turn at the stop sign and continuing straight until he reaches the second-to-last house on the left.

Jimin pulls into his driveway, putting his car in park before shutting it off. For a moment neither of you says anything. Jimin exhales and lets his head fall onto the headrest. You can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of your face, but you don’t dare to give him the eye contact he’s seeking. Your petty mind determines that he needs to feel how upset you are with him. 

When he calls your name, you roll your eyes, folding your arms over your chest. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings earl—"

“You didn’t hurt my feelings,” you lie right through your teeth, barely able to keep the tears collecting on your waterline at bay. Internally you thank the heavens above your voice didn’t tremble, a dead giveaway to your emotional despair.

For a moment your best friend does nothing. Then with not a word more to say, he pulls the key from the ignition and opens his car door. 

Shielded away from his eyes, you quickly wipe away the tears sliding down the corners of yours. Feeling pulled together enough, you take a moment to gather your purse and heels from the floor. Though, you don't bother to put your shoes back on. The distance from Jimin’s driveway to his front door is short anyway. 

Naturally, Jimin comes to open the car door for you. You shiver, greeted again by the cold air. As you exit the vehicle, you make no effort to thank him, swinging the strap of your purse back over your shoulder. From behind, you hear a sassy grumble of "You're welcome," that you choose to ignore. 

The walk from Jimin’s car to his front door feels like an eternity. From the wind blowing your hair into a tangled mess, the pebbles and rough gravel digging into the soles of your feet to the suffocating tension between you and your best friend, which you still couldn’t really understand. All you wanted to do was take a hot shower and turn your brain off for the rest of the night under a massive pile of blankets.

Jimin pulls out his key to unlock the door, and now it’s your turn to ignore the way his sharp jaw ticks. When the front door opens, the heat from inside surrounds you,  comforting you like a warm hug. You learned early on that your best friend loved to be just as toasty as you, always keeping a spare jacket or blanket around if or whenever it got too chilly. Another reason you’ve been friends for so long. You make a mental note to thank him later for turning the heat on when you're not as irritated with him. 

Your heels drop to the hardwood with a dull smack, joining a few pairs of Jimin’s piled on the floor. Your purse follows behind, on the ottoman next to the door, covered with other jackets, scarves, and things alike. Your best friend comes up beside you, discarding his own jacket and shoes.

You take notice of the comfy scene in front of you. On the couch, Jimin’s favorite blanket lies in a messy heap, like someone tossed it away in a hurry. Before the couch, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn sits in the middle of the glass coffee table, an opened can of soda beside it. In the background, the murmured chaos of an abandoned action movie, gunshots, explosions, some screaming, and then more gunshots emits from the television speakers.

The guilt that washes over you overtakes any of the irritation you felt earlier with Jimin. Once again, your tumultuous relationship has not only caused problems for you but also for the people around you.

 Of course he was upset. He had a right to be. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably be a little upset too. Lord knows how much you valued your couch potato time.

“I’m going to go wash up,” you mutter, your tone not nearly as snappy as it was before, and you don’t wait for his response as you make your way down the hall towards his bedroom. 

You close the door behind you with a heavy sigh, twisting the lever on the knob into its locked position. Guarded away from the outside, you take a moment to finally breath. Since all this shit’s transpired, you feel like you’ve been fighting for breath.

You squeeze your eyes shut and lean back. Your head thuds when it makes contact with the door behind you. In through your nose and out through your mouth. You repeat the mantra in your brain over and over. When you feel like you’ve finally caught your breath, your brain switches to autopilot. You’ve performed this exact routine far too many times. 

You reach behind yourself to tug down the zipper of your attire, a black mini dress you bought at a cute little boutique for this very date night. The piece drops, pooling at your feet. Usually you’d ask Jimin to help with the zipper, but you’re not quite ready to face him yet, and you’re sure he does not want to talk to you. Next to go are your bra and panties. The matching lace set joins your dress in the laundry hamper, which Jimin will wash for you after you’ve fallen asleep for the night like he always does.

Inside the closet in his bathroom, you grab a spare towel and washcloth stacked neatly on a shelf. You set it aside on the sink to turn on the shower, twisting the temperature dial to the hottest setting. You love showering at Jimin's; the water at home was never scalding enough for you, and the water pressure was never enough to soothe your aching muscles. Plus, his bathroom was stacked to the brim with the best of the best skincare products. You wouldn’t dare catch sight of the cheap drugstore stuff you tend to reach for in here.

As the water warms up, the bathroom fills with misty steam. From the cabinet drawer, you grab a packet of nearly empty makeup remover wipes. You don’t need to look in the mirror to know that you look a mess. Although you couldn’t even if you wanted to, the glass is all fogged up. 

Gently, you drag the wipe all over your face, making sure to reach every nook and cranny until your skin feels, for the most part, clean. You toss the wipe, soiled with pinks, brown, black, and a bit of shimmer, into the wastebin underneath the sink.

Now you’re ready to shower.

You eagerly welcome the hot water as it cascades over you, soaking every inch of your tired body. You take a moment to enjoy the feel of the water droplets raining over your skin. However, before long the steam from the shower begins to feel suffocating, and before you know it, your eyes are brimming with tears. 

With every water droplet that pelts your skin, the weight of tonight feels heavier and heavier until—

It finally breaks you.

You curl into yourself as your body is wracked by uncontrollable sobs. Instinctively, your hands come up to cover your face, slapping over your mouth, even though you’re alone in the bathroom. It feels like you’re choking on your own breath. Throat and chest burning with how hard you try to keep your sobs in.

 You need to get out of this bathroom quick.

Vision blurred from tears, you reach for your washcloth and then Jimin's body wash. You then drench the square cloth with a generous amount of soap, the scent of lavender filling the small space. You’re practically panting now. Every gasping breath triggers a new wave of tears. You press your lips together firmly until it hurts. You're known to be a loud crier, and you don’t want to alarm Jimin. 

Through it all, you scrub yourself clean, rinse, and do it again. But the icky feeling never goes away. In fact, it settles deep in the pit of your stomach and makes its home there. Weightless, you drop to the tile floor below, one hand clutching your stomach and the other over your chest right where your heart is, and you let yourself cry.

You cry until your throat is sore and until your eyes are bloodshot red. Until your wails have subsided into pathetic shuddering breaths that make your chest jerk. You cry until you can’t physically cry anymore. Until all that’s left is a soggy, heartbroken human on the wet shower floor.

────˚‧୨ᰔ୧‧˚────

Like a zombie, you emerge from Jimin’s bedroom slowly and in desperate need of some fuel. The living room is quiet and dark when you step in. Your best friend sits with his back pressed against the couch’s arm, scrolling aimlessly on his phone. Awaiting on the television screen is the play menu for Shark Tale, your comfort movie. Two mugs of warm tea replace the popcorn and soda on the coffee table. Instantly you recognize the one on the right as yours. Jimin found it at a thrift shop years ago early into your friendship. He bought it because he said the bunny on the front reminded him of you. Eyes twinkling and cheeks round, as it sat in a patch of unruly wildflowers. You rolled your eyes playfully when he showed it to you, insisting that he keep it at his house, since you were there more than you were home anyway. 

The dragging of your footsteps alerts your best friend. He looks up from his phone, gaze sleepy as his eyes settle on you. You did your best to hide the evidence of your breakdown with what limited supplies you had. Though there was nothing you could do for your bloodshot eyes and splotchy skin. If Jimin notices your disheveled appearance, he doesn’t say anything.

Jimin sets his phone on the coffee table, patting the open spot on the couch next to him with a small smile. You join him without a second thought.

The sofa moans with your movement as you settle onto the plush cushion, grabbing the throw blanket to cover your chilly legs. Jimin’s basketball shorts didn’t offer you much coverage. You would think that after spending so many nights here, there would be something of yours to sleep in. 

Nonetheless, all you were privy to were a pair of too-short gym shorts and a shabby university t-shirt. You did find, however, in Jimin’s underwear drawer, a pair of your panties neatly folded and tucked in a corner. You were thankful for that. 

When you seem comfortable enough, Jimin uses the remote to press play. The small living room area was then filled with the sound of Shark Tale’s opening scene.

The two of you watch the movie as it plays, sipping your respective mugs of tea. It’s not nearly as tense as it was earlier, but it was still a little awkward. 

The warm beverage alleviates some of the soreness in your throat. When you're sated and cozy enough, you set the cup back in its previous place. Beside you, Jimin clears his throat. From the corner of your eye, you can see him glance at you, the TV screen, and then back at you again. You pretend to not notice him, trying your hardest to focus on the scene of Oscar being manhandled by the twin jellyfish brothers, Ernie and Bernie. 

 Another minute passes before Jimin finally decides to break the silence. His voice is steady and cautious when he turns to you and asks, “So… what did happen tonight? With Theo?”

Eyes still trained on the screen, you fiddle with the seam of the t-shirt you’re wearing, Jimin’s t-shirt. You pinch the thin fabric, flicking it back and forth between your fingers. Soon Jimin is going to have to throw this old thing out. Not only was it sporting several sizable holes, but there were loose threads everywhere.

You shrug when you say, “I thought you didn’t want to know.” 

Jimin’s exhale is loud, but his tone is still calm. “That’s not what I said, and you know it. I asked what made this time different. I feel like that’s a fair question.” You’ll give it to him; your best friend is and always has been blunt. 

With no rebuttal, you grab your mug from the table, yet you don’t take another sip from it. Instead, you rotate the ceramic in your hands, watching the liquid slosh all around. 

“He cheated on me again.” The way you say it so plainly is almost startling. 

Sadly, Jimin’s demeanor doesn’t change. That part he’s used to. He leans forward, as if to ask for further details without actually uttering a single word.

“He didn't confess it to me this time; I found out.” 

Theo was nothing if not an excellent victim player. Since the beginning of your relationship, he could never keep any of his rendezvous to himself. Before you could even begin to suspect anything, he’d be spilling his guts to you, sparing the explicit details. He’d cry like a baby, falling to his knees begging for your forgiveness, and by the end of it all, somehow you were the one with the heavy heart, apologizing for your shortcomings. 

Eyes downcast, you swallow down the lump forming in your throat. If you weren’t so focused on the dark-colored liquid in your mug, you would see the way Jimin freezes, his face morphing into pure disgust. 

“Well,” you correct yourself, your voice going a little shaky, “I snatched his phone before he could delete anything. But yeah, I found the messages. All of them.” 

Against you will, your mind travels back to earlier in the night. 

Your boyfriend had invited you out to dinner, a way to make it up to you for standing you up a few nights ago. There was this new restaurant in town that you’d been begging him to go to. But each time you’d ask, he would always decline, claiming that it was too expensive even though you were usually the one who paid for your meals. That’s why when he told you your dinner would be at this restaurant, you were overjoyed. 

In the beginning, the dinner went wonderfully. The ambiance was romantic, live music playing in the background and a lit candle separating you two on the table. You hadn’t argued at all leading up to the dinner. Not when you took a little longer to get ready, not when you put the restaurant’s address into the GPS wrong (507, not 501), and not even when you couldn’t decide what you wanted to eat. 

Everything was perfect, until it wasn’t. 

You see, your boyfriend was not the sharpest tool in the shed. Like an idiot, he left his phone faced down on the table, and throughout the night it rang and rang with incoming calls, messages, and you’re pretty sure emails. This wasn’t uncommon. Your boyfriend works a taxing job. His phone was always going off as he needed to be available whenever. In fact, you wouldn’t have suspected a thing if it weren’t for the guilty looks he’d send your way every time the device sounded with a new message. 

You grew fed up with his suspicious actions and snatched the phone from the table. He tries to reach for it but backs off when he gathers the attention of a couple of onlookers. 

The contact name on the phone screen is visible, Jerry’s Pizza, but the message was hidden behind a passcode. 

You tongue the inside of your bottom lip, fury clouding your mind. “Why the fuck is Jerry’s Pizza texting you at,” you look towards the clock at the top of the screen. “Nine p.m.?”

He huffs like he has the nerve to be upset. “It's probably just some promo stuff.” 

This man must think you’re stupid. “What’s the passcode, Theo?”

Your boyfriend drops his fork, and the metal utensil clashes onto the porcelain. He leans back in his chair with a smug look on his face. “Are we seriously doing this right?” 

You swallow, teeth clenched when you hiss, “Unlock it.”

“God _____, seriously. We’re having a good night; don’t let your insecurities ruin it.”

“Unlock the fucking phone now, or we’re done!”

When he finally does give you the passcode, you’re disappointed but not surprised. You scuff and shake your head as you read the many messages from one of the many girls he’s been hooking up with. "Unfuckingbelievable."

Fresh tears sting your eyes. “God, Jimin. They were so fucking filthy. I…I didn’t even know," you stop yourself, shaking your head. “I’ve never heard him say things like that before.”

The look on Jimin’s face portrays exactly what he feels for you. He scoots closer to grab the mug from your shaky hands, setting it on the coffee table. Hands now free, he interlocks his fingers with yours as you continue.

That familiar wave of emotion bubbles up inside, just as furious as before. You can barely speak now, choking on your own words when you say, “Th-they were t-talking about me in them—" you end in a hitched breath. 

Jimin pulls you into him as you succumb again to your tears. He engulfs you with his embrace, shushing your cries and petting your hair. “Shh, shh. It’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anymore.” Your best friend rocks you both back and forth, calming you with words of comfort.

He holds you as you cry, soaking the front of his shirt with your pain. He doesn’t say anything, letting you release it all. You calm down after a while and separate from him. 

Jimin leans towards you and cups your cheeks in his hands, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. In turn, you grab his wrists, seeking his comfort and closeness. “God _____," he shakes his head, face full of nothing but sorrow. “Honey, I’m so sorry.” 

It’s your turn to shake your head now. “Not, not your fault,” you hiccup as you try to catch your breath. 

Jimin calls your name once, and then again. When you finally open your eyes, his are pleading with yours. Briefly, your heart stutters. 

His palms cup your cheeks. “Listen to me. Theo is a fucking idiot. He does not deserve you. He never did.” When new tears fall, he wipes those away too. 

Jimin releases a devastating sigh, shaking his head. “I hate that this happened to you.” He swallows thick, and there’s a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “I’m just relieved you’re finally leaving him.”

His words knock you back into reality. You blink, eyes flickering away from his to stare down at the couch instead. Instinctively, your bottom lip makes its home between your teeth. 

Jimin frowns, immediately taking note of the hesitation swimming in your features.

 “_____?” he calls, in the exact tone your mother uses when she suspects you’re hiding something from her (she’s usually right). He leans forward, attempting to regain your eye contact, and you dodge his brown orbs. “You are leaving him after this, right?” 

You don't say anything. You don’t have the courage to lie right to his face, or even tell him the truth, for that matter. 

Jimin’s exhale is long and tired. He then closes his eyes and slowly nods twice. Bitter understanding. 

The light-haired man leans away from you, removing his hands from your face. Instinctively, you reach out for him, hands hovering in midair, but he makes no effort to appease you.

Jimin drags a hand down his face, and it makes his eyebrow hairs go askew. “Please tell me that this is some sick joke, that you’re not actually thinking about taking him back after this.” 

You press your lips into a firm line. The agitation inside of you is and has been steadily building. It bubbles up and overflows when you say, “Everybody fucks up, Jimin. Some people are just better at hiding it.” 

Jimin scuffs as he shakes his head, standing up from the sofa. Running both hands through his hair, he chuckles in disbelief. The hollow, humorless rumble sends a shiver down your spine.

 "Unfuckingbelievable,” he unknowingly echoes the same word you said earlier in the night. “I can’t believe you’re making excuses for him. Still!” 

You shoot up too, quick and agitated, planting your hands on your hips. “All relationships have their problems, Jimin! That’s just the way it is. When I go home, we’ll talk, and I’ll fi—we'll fix it. We always do.” There’s uncertainty in the way you say it. Like you’re trying to convince yourself as well as him.

The sour look he’s giving you right now makes you want to flick his forehead, dead right in the center where that stupid vein is protruding. 

“God, I didn’t come here for a damn lecture. I would’ve gone to my parents’ for all that.” Jimin shrugs at you like he doesn’t care, and you know he doesn’t. It pisses you off even more.

Anyone who knows Jimin knows that your best friend is a caring man. A kind, gentle soul, as your mother liked to call him. He wouldn’t hesitate to give the shirt off his back to his greatest enemy (which he does not have) if they were in need. That’s just the type of person your best friend was. The love that Jimin had for you was undeniable. You know he’d do anything for you because he’s proven it to you time and time again. But you learned quickly in your friendship that Jimin tolerates bullshit from no one. He has had no problem with putting anyone in their place, including you. Particularly when it came to your unstable relationship. 

 Your glare is harsh, words provoking when you spit, "Especially not one coming from you.” 

Jimin’s eyebrows shoot so far up, they're nearly hidden by his grown-out bangs. He smirks like he’s ready for a challenge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

This time, you shrug. “You’re in no position to be passing judgments on my relationship, considering your track record.” The words tasted just as bitter leaving your mouth as they did hearing them said aloud. 

Jimin’s expression turns stone cold, but his smirk doesn’t waver. “My track record.”

You don’t spare him an opportunity to clapback. If you were judging correctly, you had the upper hand in this argument, and you needed to keep your momentum. 

“Don’t even pretend to be shocked, Mr. ‘I can’t keep a girl longer than a week before I’m bored and ready to hop on the next available piece of ass.

Jimin doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you can see his Adam's apple bobble when he swallows. “It’s like that, huh?”

“Oh, it’s exactly like that. You’re no better than he is."

You should’ve known you were in trouble when his smirk grew wider. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong, _____,” he taunts, wagging his pointer finger at you. It triggers your eye twitch. 

“I've treated every single booty call better than that man has ever treated you since you started dating.” He points an accusatory finger at you. “Unlike your shitty boyfriend, I know how to properly conduct myself.” 

Your jaw is clenched tight, and your eyes are narrowed into furious slits. “Bullshit.” He takes a step closer to you, and your stance is unwavering. “Yeah?”

"Yeah, Jimin, that’s bullshit, and you know it. I’ve seen how you treat those girls. Love them one day, fuck them the next, and then you're done, ready for a new one. It takes a dog to know one, Jimin,” you retort, arms folded over your chest with an eyebrow arched. 

“Don’t even pull that shit with me, _____. I make sure whoever I’m dealing with knows exactly what they’re getting into. They knew that being in a relationship was not my end goal. I just wanted to fuck around, and they were fine with that.” 

You scuff. “And they were fine with you just dropping them for the next, like it’s nothing!?”

Jimin laughs high and loud, though there’s no humor behind the sound. His eyes are blown wide, both hands in his hair. He looks exactly how you feel, crazy.

“God _____! What don’t you understand? I’m fucking single; I can do that! Your boyfriend is not! But for some reason he acts like he is!” Jimin’s words are booming, bouncing off the living room walls between you. Pretty soon you think the neighbors will come knocking with the police, and you hope that doesn’t happen because the elderly couple next door is very sweet.

The shock on your face had to be laughable. Throughout your entire friendship, Jimin has never raised his voice at you, not once. 

How dare he yell at you like that? You aren’t a child!

 Your mouth flies open, ready to shoot back with something, anything just from the sheer volume of his voice. But just as quickly as your lips fall open, they shut. Jimin’s words settle over you like ice, cooling down your temperament as your brain processes what he’s saying.  

There’s practically smoke coming from Jimin’s ears as he continues. “I’ve never kept anyone on edge all day waiting for a simple text to let them know I’m okay. Nor have I played on their insecurities to better justify my own. I’ve never fucked someone else while I was dealing with another woman, even if we weren't in a committed relationship because I’m a decent human being.” 

Your heart hammers in your chest as you shift your gaze away from his to your sock-clad feet. A silent admittal of defeat, but Jimin doesn’t stop.

“I don’t make them feel worthless, like they aren’t my equal, like I’m more deserving of respect." He comes in closer, so close that you can feel his breath on your face with every word. “How dare you even have the audacity to compare me to him? You couldn’t count on him to attend his own funeral. But who’s always there when you need them?” 

You don’t dare answer. 

“Me! I’m there! Every late-night call, every text message, every single time you need me, I’m always there. Always! Picking up the broken pieces that he leaves behind without a single fuck given.” 

With an icy glare, he leans in until the tips of your noses are nearly touching. “I’m not anything like him. I’ll never be.” 

You exhale the breath you hadn’t even realized you’d been holding as Jimin brushes past you, just barely missing your shoulder. He’d never hurt you deliberately, no matter how upset with you he is. Though you kind of wish he did. After the unjustified nasty attitude you’ve had with him tonight, you kind of wish he would just curse you out a little, throw you a few extra insults, and send you home to your cheating boyfriend. Then perhaps his compassion wouldn’t make you feel so sick to your stomach. 

Maybe that’s the exact thinking that’s gotten you into this mess in the first place. 

What are you supposed to do now? 

“Fuck,” you exhale with your head tossed back.

 At this angle, you’re face to face with the popcorn ceiling. God, you hate popcorn ceilings; they remind you of long, humid summer nights at your grandma’s unair-conditioned house in the country. Feeding feisty chickens and milking cows for two and a half months straight.

It makes your neck ache, but in this position on the edge of the couch, you ponder. Not just about your argument with Jimin, but everything you’ve been through. The disaster of tonight, your entire relationship with Theo, and all the lying, cheating, and sneaking. The heartbreaks he puts you through time and time again. Then finally your friendship with Jimin. Seemingly the only piece of stability in your life for God knows how long. 

You think about it all until the credits of your abandoned comfort movie start rolling. Begrudgingly, you reach over to grab the t.v. remote, shutting off the device with a simple click of a button. Instantly, darkness engulfs the living room. Briefly, you ponder sleeping right there on the couch, but you know your back would hate you for it, and more importantly, you need to fix this mess with Jimin. You don’t want to, but you make the short trek back toward the room at the end of the hall. 

You stop just before the doorway, peering into the bedroom. The courage you built up suddenly depleted. 

Moonlight streams in through the cracked blinds, the only source of light, neatly illuminating the room in linear streaks. Jimin sits on the edge of the bed with his head hanging low, drained, between his shoulders, elbows planted firmly on his knees. The long sleeves of his shirt are rolled up now, exposing the veins in his forearms that jump with every clench of his fingers. You’re not sure how long he’s been sitting like that, but it looks like he hasn’t moved in a while.

Through his long bangs, you can see the worn expression on his face—eyes squeezed shut, nibbling at both lips. Your heart shatters at the sight. For a moment, it feels like he’s the one that’s just been cheated on, not you. 

You take in a deep breath as you step into the dark bedroom. The floorboards creak beneath you, alerting Jimin of your presence. His keen sense of hearing. Like a hawk stalking its prey, Jimin’s gaze never falters as he watches, silently calculating your every move. Are you coming as a friend or a foe ready for more? 

Though uninvited, you settle onto the made bed next to him. You inhale deep through your nose. The faint scent of the lavender shower gel you used earlier still lingers in the air. 

“I’m sorry,” you start. You wait for a moment, giving Jimin the opportunity to say anything, but he lets you continue. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve been acting towards you.” You shake your head. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Jimin. You didn’t deserve any of it. I—" You pause, rapidly blinking away unshed tears. Dammit, you’ve already cried so much tonight; you don’t feel like another headache.

Jimin grabs your open palm lying between you and gives your hand an encouraging squeeze. It gives you the strength to finish. “I shouldn't have been so snappy with you tonight, especially since you were just trying to help me.” You swallow the lump in your throat. “And I’m genuinely sorry for always dumping my bullshit relationship problems onto you. It’s not fair. I—I don’t know.”

 You shake your head, squeezing Jimin’s hand in return. “I just want you to know that I really, really do appreciate everything that you do for me. I know that I don’t show it enough, and I apologize for that.” A lone tear tickles your cheek as it trails down your face, soaking a tiny spot on your t-shirt. You wipe away the wetness with your free hand. “From the bottom of my heart, I love you, Jimin, so so much.” 

You don’t possess a way with words like Jimin does. That silent charm that wraps people in comfort, alleviating any and all of their worries. Your only hope is that Jimin can at least feel what you’re trying to convey.

“I love you too,” he whispers, his voice watery and thick. You don’t doubt a single word. “But that’s not why I’m upset.” Your brows knit together in confusion. 

Jimin looks off to the side, like he’s carefully contemplating what he’s trying to express. “I’m not upset with you for needing me, _____. I’d never be upset because of that. We lean on each other; we support each other. That's what makes us a team. There have been plenty of times when you’ve been there for me too. It’s what we do.” 

You shake your head. “I don’t...”

Jimin sighs, clenching his pants at the knee. What he wants to say sits at the tip of his tongue. His tone is firm when he declares, “Theo does not deserve you.”

You close your eyes as you nod your agreement. “I know that, Jimin.”

“But do you though? Seriously, _____. I don’t think you do.” 

"I do, Jimin. I know, I really do. I'm—"

 “Can’t you see that my heart is broken for you?" 

Any excuse you had ready for him dies right there in your throat. You blink your eyes open, and when you look at him, really look at him, it’s all you can see.

 It’s written in the way his shoulders slump with defeat. The way he fiddles with his fingers clasping and unclasping his hands. It’s in the way his chocolatey brown eyes, usually warm and inviting, are downcast and wet with unshed tears. In fact, you can barely keep his gaze because the emotion there is so intense. 

 “Throughout your entire relationship, I’ve watched you be there for him, constantly giving him your all until there is nothing left. And at the end of the day, what does he leave you with?”  

Your best friend doesn’t wait for you to answer.

Jimin scuffs, dark espresso eyes shiny with tears. “Agony. Insecurities that eat at you every day _____.” He clutches his shirt, right where his heart is. “It devastates me.”

Fuck, how could you have been so blind? So wrapped up in your own problems that you failed to notice how it was affecting Jimin. He has always felt so deeply. Of course, when you’re hurt, he hurts too. 

“Why do you love him?” 

Like a fish out of water, your mouth opens and shuts, only able to produce  stuttering breaths. 

The next question that comes from him is barely above a whisper. “Why can’t you leave him?”

"Because—" The word rushes out of you quicker than your mind could process it. Your eyes bulge as you slap your hands over your mouth.

“Because what?” He rushes, successfully tugging your hands away from your face. 

You pinch the frayed hem of your t-shirt. “Forget it, Jimin. It’s nothing.”

Your best friend shakes his head, his thick hair moving with him. “Don’t do that. Tell me. Please, _____.” 

  You try to fight it, you really do, because once you say it, there’s no going back. It’ll become real, and it won’t just belong to you anymore. It sits on the tip of your tongue, waiting for the perfect moment to break free. 

When Jimin calls your name, you look up to meet his gaze. His eyes are pleading with yours, filled with misery as they silently beg for an answer. “Please.”

Fuck it. If there’s anyone in this world you could spill your deepest secret to, it would without a doubt be Jimin. One of the few people on this world who you trust wholly.

“Because Jimin, if I leave him, then who’s going to love me?” 

It grows silent, as if your words shatter the tension in the air surrounding you.

To finally say it aloud feels like a major relief. A thousand-pound weight being lifted off of your shoulders. Consequently, at the same time, there’s a dreadful sinking feeling deep within you. A sick feeling that you've been trying to fight for too long. The admission was devastating but desperately needed. Maybe now, the journey to solving the root of this vulnerability can finally begin.

Jimin’s lips pull into a deep frown before he whispers your name. “Is that…really what you think? That you’re unloveable?”

If there was one thing Theo knew how to do well, it was keeping you humble. It started off subtle. A joke or two here and there, always defining him as the central point of your life. You’d laugh it off every time, never quite able to detect the subliminal honesty. For a while, it continued on like that, until it built into something blatant. 

It didn’t take long for you to actually start believing that. No other man in their right mind would want a woman so damaged by their own insecurities. You thought that he truly was the sole person that you could rely on. Thankfully, Jimin was always there to prove him wrong at least a little. But, as far as romance went, forget it. There was no one better for you than him. 

You chuckle solemnly. “No one is going to put up with me, Jimin." 

Your best friend sighs. He lets go of your hand, standing from the bed. For a moment, you think he’s ready for another fight. But you don’t have it in you to argue again. Much to your surprise, he gets down on one knee and then both, kneeling down in front of you. 

 A startled gasp sneaks through your lips. “Uh, Mini?” you whisper, slightly panicked.

Jimin grasps both of your hands in his. He licks his bottom lip, and your eyes follow the pink of his tongue. “Let me,” he whispers, a determined look in his eyes. 

You blink dazedly at him. “What?”

“Let me love you." He confirms exactly what you thought he said. “Just for tonight.” 

You sputter, pulling back slightly, though you don’t let go of his hands. “Jimin, that’s not—" You shake your head. “Do you know what you’re asking? Where’s this even coming from?”

Jimin chortles, rubbing the backs of your hands with his thumbs. "It's always been there. From the moment we met, I knew I wanted you. But at that time, I was in no place to be in a relationship.” 

You arch a brow. “And now you are?”

“Shut up." Jimin nudges your knee as you bite down on your bottom lip, suppressing your grin.

“I’m not asking for a relationship.” He then wiggles his eyebrows at you when he says, “At least not right now anyway.” 

Jimin squeaks when you dig your socked toe into the meat of his thigh. He grips your foot in his hand, restricting you from delivering anymore nudges. 

“Be serious,” you chide, even though the smile on your lips has spread wider. “Are you… really into me?”

Jimin grins, his pretty teeth on full display. “In more ways than one. All I need is one night. One night to give you what you truly deserve. Let me love you how you should’ve been a long time ago.”

The thrill that bubbles up inside you is dangerous. It’s a foreign feeling, one that you don't recall ever experiencing before. But, oh, it is so welcomed. Then, a sudden wave of realization halts your excitement. A major bump in the road. 

Your boyfriend.

You almost don’t want to say it, afraid that it might ruin the exhilaration in the air. The question comes out strained with a touch of hesitancy. “What about Theo?” 

But Jimin shrugs like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. “What about him? He’s had his fun.” 

Jimin lets go of your hands, and you frown at the loss of contact. It’s short-lived, however, when his firm grip takes hold of the backs of your legs, making you gasp. 

His breath hitches at the sound of your satisfaction when he caresses you there, thumbs working overtime to unknot your tense muscles. You sigh, relaxing under his touch. Slowly, as if time isn’t of the essence, he runs his hands all the way down your legs until his fingertips reach the heels of your feet. At the same leisurely pace, he drags his digits up until they brush over your inner things, bunching up the thin material of your basketball shorts. 

 “Isn’t it time you have a little of your own?”

You have to consider Jimin’s words carefully. There’s so much at stake if you agree. For one, your friendship with Jimin will never be the same. Though you suppose, he kind of set that in motion already with his little impromptu love confession. 

The greatest damage done will be to your relationship. No matter how you try to spin it, sleeping with Jimin tonight will make you a cheater, betraying your boyfriend in the same way that has left you with a sizable hole in your heart. 

Won’t that just make you a hypocrite in the end? Did you even have that kind of promiscuity in you?

Apparently it lied dormant inside you, because as quickly as the doubt comes, it dissipates. Just like that, your mind rationalizes the decision. 

What’s the harm in indulging for just one night? After all, it’ll be with your best friend, someone you’ve known for years and trust with your life. Not with some random man you met at some sketchy club or bar.

 If Theo can do it, why can’t you?

Instead of using words to respond, you let your body do the talking. With ease, you wrap your legs around his middle, pulling your best friend forward. Jimin lets out a surprised huff as he collides with your front, his face mere centimeters from your braless breasts. The surprise on his face is quickly replaced with enthusiasm as he admires the pillowy mounds displayed casually in front of him. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, and with as much courage as you could muster, you simply request, “Show me.” 

The grin that breaks out on Jimin’s face is infectious. A manifestation of pure joy. Thinking back as hard as you can, you can’t remember a recent time when you’ve seen him look so happy. 

He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, hooded gaze flickering from your eyes then to your mouth and back to your eyes again. His thumb sits there for a moment, caressing your skin as his eyes scan across your face in a way that you could only describe as admiring. When he seems fulfilled enough, Jimin tilts your face down, guiding you towards him, and you let your eyes flutter shut. As the anticipation builds, your heart hammers beneath your ribcage. You can practically hear the thumping in your ears. 

But then there’s a pause so pregnant that it has you blinking your eyes open in confusion. If you weren’t nervous before, you certainly were now. Did you do something wrong?

You pull back slightly, just enough so that you can see Jimin’s face. Your best friend looks slightly hesitant. A gleam of uncertainty shines in his brown orbs, like he can’t believe you actually said yes. 

“Jimin,” you urge, the tenderness in your voice easing his nerves, and you try your hardest to ignore yours. “Kiss me, please.” 

The blonde man doesn’t need any further encouragement. Jimin closes the small gap between you, slotting his mouth together with yours. 

This is not the first time you and Jimin have kissed. That was years ago, back in your freshman year of college in your tiny dorm room after too many shots of illegally purchased Fireball. Surprisingly, even with your heavily intoxicated mind, you remember that day like it happened yesterday. The way you could barely keep yourselves upright, your bodies feeling too heavy and sluggish. Or how you both giggled and bantered throughout the entire ordeal, the alcohol refusing to let you take it seriously. 

You just don’t remember it feeling so damn good.

Jimin’s lips are soft when they press to yours, coated in a thin layer of chapstick. He takes his time when he kisses you like he’s always wanted to. Every peck, brush, and pressure was deliberate. Slow and searing. He needed to savor the moment, afraid of what he might miss if he went too fast. You’re not sure if you’ve ever been kissed like this before. 

With an unprecedented eagerness, you welcome the taste of him, a faint raspberry with a hint of mint. His favorite herbal tea. The same kind he always made for you after a taxing night. The plush feel of his lips has you humming in satisfaction, legs squeezing tighter around his middle. Jimin grunts, fingertips gripping the soft flesh of your thighs. 

Together, your lips work in near-perfect harmony, trading almost silent gasps and breathless sighs between each other. Noting what you liked, what you loved, and what you could probably do without. 

Jimin presses into you firmer, the hand holding your chin coming up to cradle the back of your neck. He licks at your bottom lip, begging for entry that you so graciously grant, letting your mouth fall open wider. The wet muscle of his tongue glides expertly over yours, and your nipples perk beneath your t-shirt. With every breath you take, the sensitive buds press harder into your best friend’s chest. 

Jimin's free hand grips your hip to pull you impossibly closer. A shudder wracks your body when your covered center unexpectedly meets the solid muscle hidden under his shirt. The corners of his lips twitch upwards into a smirk, clearly enjoying the evident effect he has on you.

"Damn." Jimin pulls back with a wet smack, gasping for breath. Brain foggy from the kiss, you chase his mouth with yours, craving the feel of him back on you. Jimin waits until you’re close, and then he pulls back. The groan you emit signifies your displeasure, letting your mouth fall into a frown.

He giggles at your enthusiasm, and he shakes his head naughtily at you. You lick your lips as you watch him with what you’re sure are hungry eyes. 

Jimin reaches a hand behind him, gripping the collar of his shirt. With a quick tug, he pulls the garment over and off, tossing it somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You lean back on your hands, tucking your bottom lip between your teeth. The mattress sinks under your palms with the weight. Unabashedly, you take in the sight of your best friend, scanning over the muscled, toned lines that define his body. An appreciative hum tumbles past your lips, and you nod your approval. 

Has your best friend always been so ripped? 

Jimin chuckles at your reaction. A quick brush of his fingers pushes his thick bangs off of his forehead, leaving his blemish-free skin on full display.

“Like what you see?” He asks breathily, even though he already knows the answer. Under the basketball shorts, his fingers trail up and down the sides of your bare thighs. The ticklish sensation makes you tremble just slightly. 

“Mm, not too bad." You feign nonchalance and shrug, eyeballing the necklace adorning his thick neck. You can’t wait to have the shiny silver dangling over your face when he fuc—

“Ow!” You yelp when Jimin pinches the skin there, not enough to leave a mark but just enough for you to feel it. 

He pulls you in close again, your foreheads nearly touching. “Watch yourself,” he warns in a firm whisper, thumb caressing the tender spot. His warm breath hits your chin with every word. “Or you won’t get to have any fun later.” 

His words, the tone he used with you, almost sounded…mean? But for some strange reason it doesn’t alarm you. In fact, it might’ve even turned you on a little if the wet patch forming in your panties was anything to go by. 

Jimin captures you in another passionate kiss, this one more dynamic than the first. He wastes no time slipping his tongue back in, licking and sucking his presence in your mouth. A gentle hand cradles the back of your head, pulling you in close and keeping you there. You keep up as best as you can, mirroring his actions with your own. You may not be as experienced as Jimin, but the way he was gripping every part of you—your shirt, the back of your neck, and your hands—desperate to keep you close reassures you that you were doing just fine. 

Every brush of his lips, flick of his tongue, and airy whine from his mouth smothered by yours makes you dizzier by the second. 

When you both pull back, lungs burning from your lack of oxygen, breathy pants fill the warm, quiet air. You were virtually frozen earlier, but the bedroom has grown far too hot now. 

“Fuck,” Jimin groans. He smiles unbelievably to himself, shaking his head. “There’s so much I want to do with you tonight.” Like a bobble head, you nod in certain agreement. He then captures your eyes in a heated gaze, the hunger in his eyes undeniable. He licks at his kiss-swollen lips, and your eyes follow every movement. 

“Can I take care of you? Will you let me, baby?”

“Yes, yes, please.” 

Jimin’s chuckle sends a delighted shiver down your spine. Taking the hem, he frees you from the confines of your t-shirt, pulling the fabric off of you with ease. When he tosses it, it lands somewhere on the bed behind you. 

Your nipples stand firm and proud, already pebbled from your heated kiss with Jimin. He practically salivates at the sight of them, running the wet muscle of his mouth back and forth over his plump bottom lip. You know that he’s always been a boobs man, but the fact that your boobs were the cause of his content had a bit of pride swelling in your chest. It feels incredible to be wanted so unabashedly.

Jimin reaches up, his hand hovering over your left breast. “May I?” He asks, eyes flickering up to gauge your reaction. 

You swallow down your anticipation. “If you don’t, I feel like I might explode.”

Jimin hums, and his smile is sincere. “We can’t have that now, can we?"

You sigh, breath stuttering when he strokes his thumb over your erect nipple. With his other hand, he cups your right breast. Heavy and squishy, it fills his left palm, your stiff bud grazing his skin. When he squeezes your boob, gentle and cautious, your thighs squeeze together in response, the dull ache between your legs becoming increasingly more difficult to ignore. 

“Beautiful,” Jimin whispers, pinching the hardened peak with his thumb and pointer finger. You don’t say anything; you can’t say anything with how hard you’re biting down on your bottom lip. Your best friend leans down to pepper a trail of kisses across the plane of your chest, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He then flattens his tongue, licking a stripe between the valley of your breasts, and blows on the wet skin. You cradle the back of his head, tangling your fingers in the blonde locks. 

“Oh!” you gasp when he engulfs your nipple with the wet warmth of his mouth, reflexively tugging at his hair. Jimin groans from the action, the vibrations from his delight traveling from your nipple straight down to your cunt. His tongue flicks in rapid successions over your nipple before circling your areola. In his other hand, he rolls and tugs your right nipple, still pinched between his fingers. 

The simultaneous assaults on your sensitive buds have your head reeling. The discomfort between your thighs was no longer dull but immense. Your pussy flutters around nothing, steadily soaking your panties with arousal.

“Jimin,” you mewl, eyes slamming shut when his teeth graze just barely over your stiff peak. When he sucks, the pressure creates stars beneath your eyelids. Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp, eyebrows pinching together. It makes your spine arch, further thrusting your chest into his mouth.

Your breast bounces back into place when he releases your nipple from his mouth. Every quick breath from his mouth cast over your stiff peak, chilling the wet, heated skin. 

You take a moment to catch your breath, but as soon as you inhale, the air is knocked from your lungs again when he sucks the skin of your left breast into his eager mouth. Pleasure explodes over your breast as Jimin marks you with his love bite. Satisfied with his work, he kisses the prominent bruise before he sucks your left nipple into his mouth, giving it the same attention as he did the first. 

Squirming under his keen affection, your hips jut forward to collide with his abs. It offers a brief smidge of relief, but not nearly enough. The ache emitting from your center was absolutely unbearable. Trapped behind too many layers of clothing, your clit was begging to be rubbed. 

You loosen your grip on the comforter, snaking your hand between your bodies down toward your wetness. Just as your fingers breach the waistband of your shorts, Jimin captures your wrist in his hand before interlocking his fingers with yours. You cry out in frustration, and you feel Jimin smirk around a mouthful of your tit. When he releases your nipple with a wet pop, a thin string of his saliva connects you.

It continues on like that for what feels to you like forever. Jimin ravages your breasts, alternating between your nipples, licking, sucking, and nibbling to his heart’s content. Hickeys now litter your chest, a bold yet beautiful display of his insatiable desire. You won’t dare to wear any low-cut top or dress for at least a week. By the end, your cunt is still untouched and practically weeping, confined by your soaked panties and basketball shorts.

When Jimin is finally satisfied, he releases your tit, and your chest is wracked with heaving breaths. He leans forward to peck you once on the lips and then once more. “Lie back,” he whispers against your lips, a hand on your shoulder guiding you to lay flat on his bed. You follow his command, maneuvering so that you’re in a comfortable position on his bed. You’re not quite sure what to do with your hands, letting them rest on your stomach. 

Jimin hooks his fingers in the waistband of your shorts, tugging them past the thickness of your thighs then down the rest of your legs. On the floor, they drop in a heap in front of him. 

A sharp intake of breath comes from Jimin, and you prop yourself up on your elbows. Your best friend, still on his knees before you, is face to face with your panty-clad pussy. That sinful tongue of his makes another appearance, and you make a mental note to buy him a new chapstick later. 

When he whistles appreciatively, your body flushes. “Damn,” he mutters, a finger tracing down your slit. The wet fabric sticks uncomfortably to your skin, molding itself to the shape of your slick folds.

 “You’re soaked, baby.” Jimin leans down to plant a firm kiss on your lips, and when he realigns himself, there's a slight sheen coating his mouth. 

“Jimin,” you whine, coated with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. He’s got you leaking like a fucking waterfall, and all he’s done was play with your tits. 

“Okay, okay,” Jimin chuckles, finally removing your panties from your hips. The dampened fabric joins your bottoms on the floor. You shudder, wet skin greeted by the warm bedroom air. 

 “Hush your whining.” 

Without warning, he licks a slow, broad stripe up your slit, stopping just below your needy clit. Along the way, he collects your juices on his tongue, savoring the heady taste. A strangled moan escapes you as your head falls back between your shoulders. 

Jimin groans from the sheer taste of you, his eyes fluttering shut. His tastebuds are trembling with delight. You’re more delectable than he could have ever imagined. He’s positive he can never eat another pussy ever again; he doesn’t want to eat another pussy ever again. Your juices have saturated his tongue, forever claiming his mouth as yours. 

Jimin grips the meat of your thighs, pushing them up to your chest to allow himself a clear shot at your pussy. You hook your hands underneath your knees, keeping the position he put you in. It gives you the perfect view to watch Jimin feast on your weeping sex.

His smirk is dangerous when he purrs, “Hold on tight, pretty.” 

He wastes no time burying himself between your thighs, moaning when your essence graces his tongue again. You cry out, toes curling when the thick muscle flicks over your winking entrance. 

“Oh fuck, fuck!” Your eyes flutter shut, rolling behind your closed eyelids. 

His mouth works diligently against you, his wet tongue heavy as it drags over and then through your folds, further soaking your wetness with his saliva. The sound of it is vulgar, reminiscent of someone mixing a larger bowl of mac and cheese. It makes you gasp, body heated in a blush. 

"Yes, Jimin," you shiver, elbows going shaky beneath you. Your fingers grip where you hold your shaky legs up for him, crescent moon shapes indenting your skin. Jimin hums, sucking your labia into his heated mouth. Your hips buck once, twice, and he releases them with a wet pop. 

You fall back against the plush bed, arms weakened by the immense pleasure. Your hips have a mind of their own, canting forward chasing the euphoric feeling of his mouth, and he so graciously gives it to you. Your breathing is shattered. Shaky moans and excitable squeals tumble past your parted lips, echoing off the walls of his once quiet bedroom. 

Jimin flattens his tongue, shaking his head from side to side. His mop of fair hair, gone messy from your tugging, tickles your inner thighs with the movement. He eats your pussy like a man starved. Like it’s the last meal he’ll ever have on this Earth. Even when his face is stuffed in your heat, his senses completely overtaken by the smell, feel, and taste of you, he can’t fucking get enough. He doesn’t think he ever will.

Every flutter of your empty walls sends another syrupy gush of your arousal, soaking his face and the bedsheets beneath you. You can hardly breathe as Jimin drinks you up, taking everything you give him, his lips greedy when it slurps at your leaky opening. 

It's so messy and so fucking wet.

When Jimin pulls away, his mouth and chin are shiny with his efforts. He sighs  contentedly as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting like he’s the one getting the best head of his life instead of you. He breathes, “You’re so juicy, baby.” 

Hypnotized by you, he delves back in, effortlessly parting your folds with his soaked tongue, licking up and down, up and around, but never where you need him the most. Where your ache is the most ferocious.

“Jimin,” you practically sob, heart hammering in your chest. Unshed tears have begun to collect at your waterline. God, it was good, so fucking good, but you might die if he doesn’t get his mouth on your clit soon. 

“Please, I-I need,” but you break off into a choked whine when his nose bumps your clit, the only bit of stimulation it’s gotten all night. 

Jimin detaches from your pussy with a wet pop. Hooded eyes glance up to meet yours. There's a hint of a smirk on his lips. The corners of his mouth lifted just barely. He was clearly enjoying the torture he was putting you through. 

“What was that, baby?” 

"My," you plead, voice watery and thick. “I need, my-you..." You hesitate, cheeks burning with what you want to say but can’t quite bring yourself to do it. 

Jimin steals the words right from your throat. “You need me to suck that pretty, little clit?” 

You swallow thickly, nodding before you can respond. “I need it.” You watch as Jimin’s jaw ticks and the grip he has on your hips goes tighter.

 “Say it." There's a tilt in his voice that’s unfamiliar to you. You can’t quite put your finger on it. 

Your eyes bulge. It's humorous how quickly the fog clears from your brain. “What?”

“I want to hear you say it. Tell me what you need.” 

“Jimin,” you whine, kicking your leg in frustration. Your body heats as it floods with embarrassment. “Are you serious?” 

Jimin smiles wickedly, pearly whites on full display. “Say it, _____. Or we stop right here.” 

“I uh, I need you to..."

There’s an amused glint in his eyes when he lifts his eyebrows, watching for you to continue. He plans a kiss at your inner thigh in encouragement. 

Your inhale is deep, pride tossed out of the window when you plead, “I need you to suck my clit, Jimin."

When he sees the desperation in your eyes, deep espresso connecting with yours over the plane of your quivering stomach, he loses it. You sob when his mouth engulfs your needy bud wholly. Your fingers scramble, letting go of our legs to tangle in his blonde strands, pulling tight. Jimin groans, and the vibrations shoot straight through your clit to the very tips of your toes. He holds you down himself, pinning your thighs to your chest, rendering you helpless to his merciless suction. 

The tip of his tongue circles your clit, quick and firm. “God yes!” You moan when his lips wrap tight around your swollen bud to suck incessantly. Back arching from the bed, toes curling in the open air, tears finally leak from the corners of your eyes, trailing down your temples. 

When he slips his finger in and then another, knuckle-deep, your slick walls grip him up instantly. They pulse around the slim digits, drawing him in deeper. He didn’t even need to move; the pressure alone sent you over the edge, crashing headfirst into euphoria. 

When you cum, it’s not shrill and elegant like those well-produced pornos you’ve watched before. It’s deep and guttural as it blossoms from the pit of your stomach until it rattles through you, seizing your body. Your muscles tighten, thighs quivering around his head as he delivers wave after pleasurable wave with his soaked tongue and fingers. 

And Jimin loves every second of it.

He doesn’t let up, even after you’ve cum. It’s not until you’re whining, pushing weakly at his head, that he takes mercy on you, pulling away after one final kiss to your spent pussy. 

Vision still teary, you blink up at the ceiling, lying there in disbelief and panting as you try to catch your breath. Reaching a hand up, you wipe away the tiny beads of sweat that have collected at your hairline. 

Below you hear Jimin finally rise from the floor, but you make no attempt to get up, still spent from your amazing orgasm. There’s some rummaging, the sound of clothes hitting the ground, and then the bed dips with Jimin’s weight. He clambers over to you, covering your body with his. You welcome his added heat, arms weakly coming up to wrap themselves around his neck.

He smiles down at you, eyes flickering all across your face, soaking in your post-orgasm haze. His touch is gentle when he brushes stray hair away from your sweaty forehead. 

“Hey you,” he greets, leaning down to give you an Eskimo kiss. 

You trace a finger down the slope of his jaw down to his chin before you cradle his cheek in your palm. “Hey yourself." You smile back, voice slightly hoarse. 

“How are you feeling?” 

You swallow, licking at the dryness on your lips. Your grin is sincere when you say, “I feel amazing. You’re really good at that, you know.” 

Jimin giggles, interlocking his fingers with yours to kiss the back of your hand. With his thumb he strokes the skin. 

“Thank you, Jimin.” 

Your best friend leans down to capture you in a gentle kiss. Your tongue darts out to swipe across his lip, dipping inside to taste yourself on his tongue. You pull away, satisfied and a little breathless.

 “Of course. It’s what you deserve.”

You hum, tracing a finger from his sternum down to the ridges that make up his abs. He shivers under your feather-light touch. “Do I maybe deserve a little something else?” You tilt your head to meet his gaze. 

Jimin raises his eyebrows at you. A playful gleam in his eyes. “A little something like?” He trails off.

You hold his eye contact, and with your free hand, you reach down between his legs to take hold of his stiffened member. Jimin gasps, shutting his eyes tight. He’s heavy in your palm, his skin smooth and warm to the touch. He must’ve been hard for quite some time

“Yeah,” Jimin nods, breath knocked from his lungs when you squeeze the base of his cock. “I think that can be arranged.”

You hum, working your hand over his stiff rod. He grunts when your strokes come faster, his freehand fisting the sheets beside him. “Just like that, pretty,” he encourages, and you do exactly as you’re told. 

You soak in how beautiful he looks in ecstasy. The way his thick brows pinch with every stroke. How his plush lips fall open, unleashing sounds just as pretty as he is. Delicate yet husky. Your favorite part is the way his stomach muscles quake with the effort of holding himself up. 

“Fuck, baby,” Jimin moans as your wrist flicks upwards, from base to head. 

When you glide your fingers across his reddened tip, your digits slicking with his precum, a hand claps over your wrist, restricting your movements. 

His eyes bore into yours, his voice strained when he breathes, “If you don’t stop, I’ll come, and I don’t want to yet. Not until I’m inside you.”

You shiver, exhilaration rattling your bones. “Then, what are you waiting for?” 

You allow Jimin to position your body until you’re lying on your side. When he assures you that you're comfortable, he comes up behind you, slotting his chest to your back. You lean into him, comforted by the feel of his own heart thrumming in his chest. Nerves and excitement are coursing through his veins as well, anticipating what is to come. Your senses heighten at the feel of his hard cock nestled between your ass cheeks.

He leans in to kiss the plump of your cheek before reaching behind himself to retrieve a condom from inside his nightstand. 

You stop him, a quick, gentle hand on his thigh. “Can you… I want you to fuck me raw.” 

A muttered curse from behind makes you grin. “_____, are you sure?” 

You nod, thighs rubbing together, the heat between your legs intensifying at the mere thought. “I want to feel all of you. Is that okay?” 

“Fuck, yeah, that’s okay." Jimin doesn’t need much convincing to agree. He just needs to get inside you quick. His hand slides from your hip to your thigh, cupping underneath your knee to prop your leg up and open enough.

 “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers, cockhead sliding through your slippery folds to nudge at your needy clit.

You gasp, reaching a hand up to tangle in the hair on the back of his head. “I’m fine, Mini." You roll your hips back, seeking more of that delicious pressure on your pearl. Your teeth clench in a hiss when he bumps it again. “Just please fuck me.”

You watch, eyes eager as Jimin slides in without much resistance, filling you up to the brim. It knocks the air from your lungs. He’s so incredibly thick, thicker than any other dick you’ve taken before. It feels like he’s splitting you open in the best way possible. 

Jimin groans, engulfed by your soaked warmth. His body flushes, one hand fisting the bedsheets, the other with a vice grip on your hip. Quick short pants slip past his mouth to coat the shell of your ear.

You spread your legs wider, the propped one coming to hook behind his thigh. Somehow, it slips him deeper into your flooded canal, leaving you both crying out. 

“Holy shit, Jimin,” you breathe, as your walls pulse around him, adjusting to his sheer girth.

Jimin’s chuckle is breathy, full of disbelief. He pecks your shoulder before resting his forehead there. He’s thinking exactly what you are.

Why does it feel so fucking good?

 “I know, baby.” He gives an experimental thrust of his hips that has your eyes rolling, his hips pressed flush against your ass. “So fucking good,” he murmurs in your ear, and a delighted shiver journeys down your curved spine. 

The pace he sets is maddeningly slow, nothing like what you’re used to. Languid rolls of his hips that stuff you full before leaving you just about empty, only to fill you right back up again. You can hardly breathe through the feel of him, gasping for air every time he presses back in. Jimin moves from your shoulder, attaching his lips to the juncture in your neck, licking and sucking. It leaves you with marks so fierce you have no idea how you’ll cover them later.

“Jimin,” you whine when the pace gets to you. A pressure that builds and builds but never fully erupts. 

Looking back, you capture him in a lust-filled gaze. "Fuck me faster, baby, please.” 

Jimin grunts, his brows furrowing when he picks up his pace, his hips meeting your ass cheeks with resounding smacks. They’re enough to fill the bedroom and bring a warm hue to your cheeks. 

The noises spilling from your cunt are just as lewd. Roaring slickening when he glides in and out. Messy when it soaks his cock in your transparent juices, dripping down your thighs onto the bedsheets below. 

Jimin tweaks your stiff nipples with his thumb before pinching them between his fingers, rolling and tugging. The pain, sharp and temporary, makes you jerk, toes curling tight. 

“Shit!” you wail, fist pounding the bed. “Just like that baby.”

"S'good, pretty?” he whispers, choked up with his own pleasure. 

You don’t respond; you can’t respond with the way the pounds into your dripping heat. He wraps you in his firm hold, his arm coming to sling across your chest. The extra leverage he needed to pull you back, forcing you to meet his deliciously deep thrusts. 

The force of his fucking rocks the bed beneath you, the headboard banging against the wall. You’ve definitely got to write Mr. and Mrs. Welles an apology letter tomorrow. 

There is nothing you can do except take it, helpless to his powerful pumps. Like a ragdoll, you lie limp, taking everything he gives you. The heat in your lower tummy swells, your pussy squeezing around his heavy cock. “Close,” you choke, your mind fuzzy and delirious. 

Jimin gasps as he thrusts upwards one last time, filling you to the hilt before he pulls out completely with a wet pop. He leaves you empty, clenching around nothing, the heat in your belly subsiding. 

Your eyes fly open, complaints ready to fly past your lips, but Jimin stops you. 

“Hands and knees,” he pants as he palms your ass cheek. "Want to fuck you from behind.”

Any rebuttals you had ready die right there on your tongue. You prop yourself up on all fours, limbs slightly wobbly, and arch your spine in a way you know will make the light-haired man crazy. 

You feel Jimin position himself behind you. Tucking your bottom lip between your teeth, you wiggle your ass, swaying from side to side to tease him a little. 

Your yelp is shrill when his palm collides with your right cheek, flinching at the feeling.

Jimin hums, marveling at the ripples it creates. “Behave,” he tsks as he palms the sore area and you lick your abused lips. 

He groans as he feeds his cock to your pussy. Your walls greedily accept him with a filthy-sounding squelch. When he’s all the way in, he steadies himself, with both hands on your hips. His huff grazes the skin of your back. “How are you still so fucking tight?” 

You sigh, dropping your head forward between your shoulders. He holds you in his palms, caressing your fleshy hips.  

He wastes no time in setting a brutal pace, fucking you faster and harder than before. You scramble, hands finding purchase on the bedsheets, but each roll of his hips sends your body forward and back, tugging the sheets loose from the mattress corners. 

"God, yes,” you groan, body trembling with delight. He pounds into you, the flesh of your ass smacking his thighs and lower stomach with every thrust. Its roaring and filthy.

Jimin is just as, if not more vocal than you, whining, groaning, and gasping every time he stuffs you full. It sets your body alight to know he’s just as affected as you are. 

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and your spine bows deeper than before. "Oh, fu—," you try, but you can’t even get the words out as he plunges into you. Rhythmic and precise.

It doesn’t take much until you’re drawing near again and you know you’re close when the fluttery warmth in the pit of your stomach returns, your pussy squeezing Jimin tight. 

He cries out, falling over to cover your sweaty back with his front. “M’ not gonna last,” he whimpers, rocking forward, body trembling with the efforts of his pumping.

He fucks you like that. His body is glued to your back, constant rolls of his hips that slide him deeper and deeper. His tip nudges incessantly at your front wall, gliding repeatedly over that spongy spot. The spot that has you seeing stars.

When Jimin feels you tighten up around him, he snakes his hand under your body to circle your swollen bundle of nerves. Like magic, the added pressure is just what you need to reach your peak. 

The coil, pulled taut in your tummy, snaps, and euphoria pulses through your veins, hot and rapid. Your mouth falls open, eyes squeezing shut as you gush around his cock. A strangled wail that you’re not even sure came from you resounds in the room, but you can barely hear it past the blood rushing in your ears. Falling face-first into the mattress, your muscles seize as your body is overtaken by the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Through it all, Jimin's hips never let up, and you flutter around him, creaming his thick cock. The ferocity of your orgasm triggers his own. Jimim ruts once, twice, and then he comes with a breathy sigh that sounds something like your name, painting your quivering walls with his hot seed.

────˚‧୨ᰔ୧‧˚────

It’s early when Jimin comes to the next morning. He can tell by the lack of sunlight beaming through his cracked window blinds, covering his bedroom in a barely there glow. 

He smacks his lips tiredly, muscles achy with exertion making their presence known, and in an instant, memories of last night come flooding back to him.

 Picking you up outside of that restaurant. The sight of you ripped his heart to pieces. Standing there alone in the cold, looking so vulnerable, clinging on to what little sanity you had left. You looked so heartbroken but yet so beautiful. Always so beautiful. 

Or later on, when he confessed his love for you. An undying ache that’s been tugging at his heart after all these years of being your friend, your best friend. A title he doesn’t take lightly. Not because he was in love with you, but because he loved you. Every part of you, your mind, your heart, and soul.

 How you didn’t turn him away, accepting his affection and embracing it wholly. There was so much love he had to give, so much time he needed to make up for after all these years lost. 

Jimin turns his head, and there you lie, a beautiful smile on your face directed at him. His heart stutters in his chest. 

“Good morning,” you greet, your tongue peeking out to wet your lips. 

Jimin rolls over on his side, readjusting on his pillow. “Morning,” he grins, all teeth. “How’d you sleep?”

You inhale deep, your smile never leaving your pretty lips. Your gaze is still slightly hazy with sleep when you look at him. There’s a gentle glow surrounding you, radiating utter bliss. Happy and carefree. It’s been so long since he’s seen you like this, too long.

“Mmm, I slept amazing, thanks to you.” You reach out to poke the solid planes of his stomach, hidden by the comforter. You yawn, hands coming up to rest under your head. “Though, I should rough you up for letting me fall asleep without my bonnet on. I just got my hair done.” 

Jimin snickers, scooting closer to you. He grabs hold of your hands, interlocking his fingers with yours. “I did try to wake you up, but considering it's been so long since you’ve been fucked to sleep, I figured you needed it." 

Your eyes widen, mouth curving up in disbelief. “Fuck you!”

Jimin shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Been there, done that.” 

You gasp, reaching over to smack his arms as you’re taken over by giggles. “Shut up, Jimin!” 

He laughs, dodging your harmless blows, and you don’t oppose when Jimin sits up, scooping you in his arms. Effortlessly, he plops you down over his lower stomach. When your giggles subside, you trace a finger over his chest, covering his skin with invisible doodles that only you can see.

“I uh..." you clear your throat. “I talked to Theo earlier." 

Jimin does his best to mask his apprehension. “Yeah?” He fingers the hem of his t-shirt you’re wearing, which basically belongs to you.

You nod. “He wanted to know where I went.” 

“Did you tell him?” 

“I did.” Jimin arches his brow when you smirk. You lean over to grab your phone from under the pillow. You tap the screen, turning the device on, and there’s a bright glow cast over your face. Swift fingers tap a few more times before you turn the screen to him. “I sent him this.”

Jimin squints at the brightly lit screen, but when his vision clears and he recognizes what you’re showing him, he gasps incredulously. 

On the screen is a picture of him and you, tangled together in his bed and obviously naked under the sheets. In the picture, Jimin is still fast asleep, eyes closed and his mouth slightly ajar. But you, on the other hand, are wide awake. In fact, you’re posing for the camera, two fingers up in a peace sign next to your face and your mouth pouted in “duck lips." On your skin, his love bites from last night are proudly displayed.

Below the picture, there’s a message from Theo that you have no plans to respond to. It included every curse word in the book, words that Jimin didn’t even know existed. 

You shrug, locking the phone, and tossing it aside. “I think it’s safe to say we’re done.” 

Jimin tosses his head back in a laugh. He shakes his head as he says your name. “You’re unbelievable!” 

“Noo, what’s unbelievable is that I stayed with him for so long," you counter, rolling your eyes. You grab both of his hands in yours. 

“Thank you,” you nod. “For staying by my side through all of this. And dealing with my stubbornness. I truly don’t know what I would do without you. I love you, Jimin.” 

Jimin’s grip is gentle when he grabs the back of your neck to pull you into his kiss. You gladly accept, cradling his face in your hands. 

When you pull away, you’re breathless. “I love you,” Jimin whispers on your lips. “So much.” 

You beam, sitting back on his muscley thighs. Your head tilts, however, when your clothed center comes in contact with something firm.

 “Are you…hard?” Your question is laced with amazement. 

Jimin groans, cheeks reddening in embarrassment when you laugh aloud. “I can’t help it; everything you do turns me on. You could literally breath and I’d be hard as a rock.” The heat between your legs makes a fierce return.

 “Hm, is that so?”

You hook your thumb in the waistband of your panties, ready to slide them down your legs. Jimin licks his lips as hunger clouds his pretty brown eyes. “You were so generous to me last night. Why don’t you sit back and let me take care of it, baby?"

◆ Geto is not loud about love. He is precise about it. His affection shows up in what he remembers, what he adjusts, the way he learns you until caring for you looks like instinct. Not because he wants credit for being attentive, but because once Suguru decides someone matters, he starts making room for them with frightening quiet.

◆ He does not stumble into intimacy and pretend it happened by accident. If he wants to see you, he says so. If he misses you, he might take a moment to admit it, but he will not make you chase reassurance just to protect his pride. There is a calm directness to him that makes even simple things feel deliberate.

◆ The first thing he notices about you is not your softness, though he notices that too. It is your perception. Your quiet is not empty to him. It is active, watchful, full of assessment and restraint. He catches the way you read a room before speaking, how you notice who interrupts whom, where tension gathers, which laugh has an edge, who is pretending not to care.

◆ He does not try to pull you out of that quiet. He meets you inside it. Sometimes, without making a show of it, he asks, “What do you think?” and listens like your answer might show him something he missed. That is one of the first dangerous things about Suguru: he makes you feel like your mind is not something to soften before offering.

◆ His attention does not feel scattered. It feels placed. When Suguru looks at you, you know you are being seen with care and consequence, and that can be more unnerving than being flirted with openly.

◆ He remembers everything. The tea you want when you are tired. The one you reach for when your stomach feels unsettled. The fact that you prefer warm metals: gold, brass, copper, amber tones that catch against your brown skin like they belong there. He notices that you never wear silver before you ever tell him you hate it.

◆ “Cool metals don’t suit you,” he says one night, turning one of your rings gently between his fingers.

You glance down at your hand in his. “You sound very certain.”

His thumb moves once over your knuckle. “I am.”

◆ Suguru says things like that too easily. Calmly. Like he has considered the evidence and arrived at the only reasonable conclusion. It is unfair, mostly because he means it.

◆ He notices your nails too: the practical length, the rounded shape, the dark colors that shift with your mood. Black, espresso, deep wine, muted plum, oxblood, dark olive. He notices when they are fresh because your hands move differently for the first day, like you are newly aware of them. He notices when one starts lifting because your thumb keeps finding the edge.

◆ If your fingers drift toward your mouth out of old habit, he does not grab your wrist. He learns very quickly that you do not respond well to being managed. Instead, he offers his hand, palm up, patient and wordless until you look at him.

◆ “What?”

◆ “You need something to do with your hands.”

◆ “You are not a fidget toy.”

◆ “No,” he says, mild. “I’m better-looking.”

You put your hand in his because he is impossible in a way that does not feel loud. His thumb slides over your knuckles, not to restrain you, only to redirect. The difference matters, and Suguru understands that care stops being care the second it becomes control.

◆ Boyfriend Suguru reads your social battery like weather. He will not announce your overwhelm in front of other people or make the room turn toward you. He simply appears beside you, absorbs the conversation you can no longer carry, and gives you an exit so clean it looks like his idea to leave.

◆ “I promised I’d help her with something,” he says, calm as ever.

You blink at him because he promised no such thing.

His hand settles lightly at your back. “Come on.”

Only after you are outside, away from the noise and heat and too many overlapping voices, does he glance down at you. “Better?”

You exhale. “Yes.”

He nods once, like that is all the confirmation he needed.

◆ He is careful with your sensory limits without making them feel clinical. If the room is too bright, the lights go low. If a restaurant is too loud, he asks, “Outside or home?” If your clothes start feeling wrong against your skin, he does not ask twelve questions while you are already at capacity. He adjusts the environment first and waits for language to come back later.

◆ The first time he sees you shut down, he handles it so quietly that you almost do not know what to do with the relief. His hand does not land on you. It hovers near your elbow, visible, offered but not assumed.

◆ “Leave?”

One word. No performance.

You nod, and he moves without making you the center of attention. By the time you are outside, cool air hitting your face, Suguru is beside you but not touching you. Near enough to be there, far enough not to ask your body for anything.

◆ At home, he lowers the lights, makes tea without clatter, and sets the cup within reach instead of pushing it into your hands. “Same room?” he asks.

You nod.

“Touch?”

You shake your head.

“Talking?”

Another shake.

“Understood.”

Then he keeps the promise. That is what makes it work. Suguru does not ask questions he is unwilling to obey.

◆ His touch is intentional. The back of your neck when he wants your attention. Fingers brushing your knee when he is listening. His thumb under your chin when he wants you to look at him before he says something serious. One hand at your lower back in a crowd, not pushing, not steering unless you lean into it, simply there.

◆ He is not constantly affectionate in public, but he is rarely unaware of you. He stands close enough that your shoulders can brush if you shift. He walks on whichever side keeps you away from the street or the crush of passing bodies. He takes your bag when the strap starts cutting into your shoulder.

◆ “I can carry my own things.”

◆ “I know.”

◆ “Then why are you taking it?”

◆ “Because you moved it from one shoulder to the other four times.”

◆ “You counted?”

◆ “Not intentionally.”

Somehow, that is worse.

◆ Suguru does not compliment you like he is trying to persuade you into confidence. He does not turn your body into a lesson. He simply likes you with a directness that feels almost unsettling in its lack of performance. Your hips under his hands, your thighs warm against his, the soft give of your stomach when he draws you closer, the bronze warmth of your skin in low light.

◆ The first time he rests his hand across your stomach in bed, you go still. It is not rejection. It is habit, memory, the sudden awareness of softness under someone else’s hand and every old instinct asking whether you are about to be measured.

Suguru notices immediately. His hand stills.

◆ “Should I move?”

No wounded pride. No teasing. No making your body’s reaction about his feelings.

“No,” you say after a breath. “Just give me a second.”

His mouth brushes the back of your shoulder, barely a kiss. “Take it.”

He waits without tightening his hold or turning patience into pressure. Eventually, your body remembers where it is. His palm is still there, warm and steady, wanting nothing from you except permission to remain.

◆ Suguru is very composed. The longer you are together, the more that composure starts bending around you. Not breaking, bending. His hand tightens at your waist when you touch him first. His eyes linger too long when you walk into the room wearing a dark skirt, heavy boots, warm gold at your ears, your curls half-pinned and already escaping around your face.

◆ He is not easy to fluster in obvious ways. He does not sputter or lose his elegance in some dramatic collapse. He just goes still for half a second too long when your hand finds his thigh under the table, or when you tuck one of his loose strands behind his ear, or when you say something too direct for him to pretend he did not hear it.

◆ “You like when I touch you first.”

His eyes lift to yours. “Yes.”

The answer is calm. The pause before it was not.

◆ Suguru would love how specific your interests are. If you start talking about music, books, games, or some niche thing you love, he watches you with that expression that has no audience. Soft around the eyes, quiet at the mouth, not smiling for performance or waiting for his turn to speak. Just watching you become more yourself.

◆ He does not always understand your music, but he understands what it does for you. He understands texture, tension, release, the way sound can become a room when the actual room is too much. Some of your heavier playlists make him pause like he has walked into a machine with religious intentions, but he never dismisses them.

◆ One night, you come over and hear one of your ambient albums playing low while he cooks.

◆ “You listened to this?”

◆ “Several times.”

◆ “You hated it.”

◆ “At first.”

◆ “And now?”

He tastes the broth, considering. “It has good architecture.”

You nearly have to sit down.

◆ Suguru is a menace about kissing you when you are in the middle of saying something smart. Not always, only when he knows you feel safe enough to be annoyed. You will be explaining something with increasing intensity, a book, a song, the exact reason a certain ugly guitar tone scratches your brain correctly, and he will be watching you too closely.

◆ “Are you even listening?”

◆ “Yes.”

◆ “Then what did I just say?”

He repeats it back perfectly.

Terrible man.

Then, as you try to recover your point, he leans in and kisses you. Not enough to end the conversation. Enough to derail it.

◆ “I was talking.”

◆ “You were.”

◆ “That was rude.”

◆ “Affectionate.”

◆ “Sabotage.”

◆ “Both can be true.”

He likes the exact second your train of thought falters. Not because he wants you small, but because he loves seeing the guarded machinery of your mind glitch under tenderness, surprise, want. He loves that you are still sharp afterward, still narrowing your eyes at him, still pressing your nails against his chest like you are deciding whether to push him away or pull him closer.

◆ He learns your curls carefully. How they spring loose from clips. How they fall longer when wet and gather back into themselves as they dry. How they catch under necklaces, collars, headphones, his bracelets, his fingers when he forgets himself.

The first time one of your ringlets tangles around his bracelet, he freezes completely.

◆ “Don’t move,” you say.

◆ “I’m not.”

He is not. Not even a little.

You free the curl carefully while his gaze stays on your hands, almost solemn.

◆ “You can breathe.”

He exhales. “I was.”

◆ “You absolutely were not.”

◆ “I didn’t want to pull.”

That softness lands somewhere inconvenient. After that, he is careful every time. He moves your curls before they get trapped beneath his arm, lifts them gently away from your neck when helping with a necklace, and asks before touching them if the moment feels even slightly uncertain. Not because your hair is fragile. Because your trust is.

◆ Suguru’s jealousy is subtle, which is worse. He does not get loud or make you responsible for shrinking your life around his discomfort. He trusts you completely. What he dislikes is entitlement: someone assuming your quiet means permission, talking over your answer, touching too freely, crowding you because they have mistaken your politeness for softness they can press into.

When that happens, Suguru goes still. Not stiff. Still. Like a blade deciding whether it needs to leave the sheath.

◆ “She answered you.”

Quiet. Almost gentle.

The room understands anyway.

◆ Later, when you are alone, he asks, “Did you want me to step in sooner?”

Not, “Was I good?” Not, “Are you mad?” Not, “I was only trying to help.” He asks because he intends to calibrate. You tell him the truth, and the next time, he gets it exactly right.

◆ Arguments with Suguru are low and intense. Never thoughtless, never full of pointless cruelty. He listens too well for that. But when he feels cornered, he can become controlled. Too controlled. Every word measured, every feeling folded into something clean enough to handle.

You catch it once in the middle of a fight, when he says something perfectly reasonable and completely evasive.

◆ “You’re doing the thing.”

◆ “What thing?”

◆ “Being composed instead of being honest.”

His mouth closes. There it is, the tiny fracture in the calm.

◆ “That,” he says slowly, “is an unpleasantly accurate distinction.”

◆ “I know.”

For a moment, he looks tired. Not of you, but of being seen before he is ready to be. Then he lowers his gaze, and his voice changes just enough.

◆ “All right. Then I’ll try again.”

◆ Suguru can be proud, frighteningly so, but he is not so proud that he cannot recognize when you are right. He may take time. He may need silence. He may have to look away while he rearranges the sentence into something he can survive saying. But he comes back to the truth.

◆ “I was hurt,” he admits once, quiet and almost bare. “I didn’t want to be.”

You soften, but you do not rush to rescue him from the discomfort of his own honesty. That restraint matters. For Suguru, being understood is sometimes more intimate than being touched.

◆ He likes when you are direct with him. Genuinely. He respects precision, courage, and the effort it takes to place the truth between two people without dressing it up until it becomes useless. What he has to learn is that his own elegance can become a locked door if he uses it to avoid being messy.

◆ “Don’t make it pretty,” you tell him once.

His eyes flick to yours. “What?”

“Whatever you’re about to say. Don’t make it pretty just because it hurts.”

The silence that follows is long and full of him deciding whether he trusts you enough to give you the unpolished thing.

Then he says, “I’m afraid of becoming cruel.”

No ornament. No philosophy. Just the bone.

You do not rush to reassure him, because Suguru would not believe easy comfort. Instead, you say, “Then keep letting people who love you tell you when you are.”

His expression changes. “And if I don’t want to hear it?”

“Then hear it anyway.”

For a moment, he looks at you like you have asked something impossibly intimate of him. Maybe you have.

◆ He does not make you his salvation. You would hate that. He does not become good because you love him. Love is not a leash, a cure, or a soft hand pressed over every ugly thought until it stops breathing. But with you, Suguru has fewer places to hide from himself, and that matters.

◆ He adores the version of you other people do not get. The sleepy version with your curls flattened on one side and your voice low from disuse. The irritated version muttering something sharp while looking for your keys. The focused version with your headphones on, conducting some impossible rhythm with your fingers against your thigh. The excited version, talking faster than usual because a story or song has caught fire in your mind.

Some people love you most when you are easy. Suguru loves you most specifically.

◆ His acts of service are subtle until you start counting them. He keeps the teas stocked. Charges your headphones when he notices the battery is low. Learns which lights bother you and which lamps you actually like. Keeps a blanket on the couch because you always tuck your feet beneath you. Brings water when you have been hyperfocused too long and pretending thirst is a future problem.

◆ “Drink.”

You look up from your book. “Hello to you too.”

◆ “You’ve been reading for two hours.”

◆ “That is not a crime.”

◆ “Dehydration is not a literary device.”

◆ “You don’t know that.”

◆ “Drink.”

You drink. He does not look smug, but he does look correct, which is worse.

◆ Suguru is excellent for parallel play. You can read while he works nearby, listen to music while he cooks, play a cozy game on the couch while he sits beside you with a book, one hand resting near your ankle. The silence does not feel like absence with him. It feels inhabited.

◆ Every so often, he touches you without interrupting you: a thumb against your ankle, fingers brushing your wrist, one look over the top of his book. If you look back, he smiles faintly. If you do not, he lets you stay inside whatever has your attention.

◆ His domesticity is quiet and deliberate. Your boots beside his at the door. Your sweater over the back of his chair. His hair tie on your wrist because you stole it absentmindedly and he noticed but said nothing. Your book on his nightstand. Your favorite blanket folded over the couch, even though he claims it is there because it “suits the room.”

◆ The small ceramic dish by the sink appears after you leave your rings on the counter three times. Dark green glaze, brown at the rim, the sort of object that looks like he considered seventeen options and chose the only one that would look right with your gold jewelry inside it.

◆ “This is new.”

Suguru does not look up from the kettle. “Is it?”

◆ “Suguru.”

◆ “You kept leaving your rings by the sink.”

◆ “So you bought a dish?”

◆ “I bought a dish.”

◆ “For my rings.”

◆ “For the counter.”

You stare at him. The corner of his mouth moves, barely.

◆ “You are so full of it.”

◆ “Possibly.”

The dish stays. So do the rings. Eventually, so do you.

◆ If you fall asleep near him, something shifts behind his composure that he did not authorize. Especially if it happens by accident. Especially if you were fighting sleep and lost because his apartment was quiet, his hand was steady, and your body decided before your mind did that you were safe.

◆ Suguru controls almost everything about how he moves through the world. This — the way his chest tightens when your breathing changes, the way his hand finds your shoulder before he has decided to reach for you — is not controlled. It is the closest thing to involuntary he allows himself, and he is not entirely comfortable with how much he does not want to correct it.

◆ The first time you fall asleep with your cheek against his thigh while he reads, he turns one page and then stops pretending he is still reading. His hand rests over your shoulder, light and careful, like trust is something that might wake if held too hard.

When you wake, you find him looking down at you with an expression so unguarded that he smooths it away a second too late.

◆ “How long was I asleep?”

◆ “Not long.”

◆ “Liar.”

◆ “About an hour.”

You sit up too fast, embarrassed, but his hand steadies your shoulder.

◆ “Don’t.”

◆ “Don’t what?”

◆ “Turn it into something you have to apologize for.”

◆ Sleeping beside him is unfairly safe. He is not clingy in the obvious way, but he always knows where you are. If you shift away, his hand finds the edge of your shirt in the dark. If you curl closer, his arm opens before he is fully awake. If you wake unsettled, he wakes quietly, without flooding the room with panic. His breathing changes first — you feel it against your shoulder, the shift from sleep to attention — and then his voice comes low and unhurried, like he has been awake longer than he has.

◆ “I’m here.”

Not a question. Not a checklist. Just the fact, placed in the dark where you can reach it.

His hand finds the mattress between you, palm up, not landing on you. Waiting to be chosen. When you take it, his fingers close. His arm comes around you, steady and careful. Not crushing, not trapping. The room settles back into its corners.

◆ Suguru’s sincerity is quiet enough that you have to learn where it lives. It is in the pause before he answers. The way he looks at your mouth and then your eyes, choosing restraint because the conversation matters. The way he remembers your phrasing months later. The way he says your name when the room has become too performative.

◆ He has never once told you that you are too much. He has, on occasion, told you that you are overextending yourself. There is a difference.

◆ “You’re trying to be fine,” he says one night.

You do not look up from your book. “That is a normal thing to try to be.”

◆ “Not when the performance costs more than the honesty.”

You turn a page too sharply. “I did not ask to be analyzed.”

◆ “No,” he says. “You asked me to stay.”

Your fingers still.

He lets the sentence sit. Not a trap, not a victory. An opening.

Eventually, you close the book. “I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“I’m tired of being perceived.”

“Then you don’t have to perform for me.”

You huff a laugh with no humor in it. “You perceive everything.”

◆ “Yes,” he says, calm and devastating. “But I don’t require a presentation.”

◆ Suguru likes being trusted, but he is almost painfully aware of what it costs you. That awareness changes how he handles you. Not like glass, never like glass. He does not confuse sensitivity with weakness. He handles you like something alive and sovereign, something that can lean toward him and still remain entirely itself.

◆ When he says he loves you, it is not casual. He does not throw the words out to see whether they land. He waits until they have already been proven by tea, silence, touch, listening, return. By the time he says it, hearing it is not a surprise. It is a door opening fully.

Maybe it happens in his kitchen, your gold rings sitting in the dish he bought “for the counter,” your curls loose around your face, one of his shirts layered over your own clothes because his apartment runs cold.

You say something dry under your breath, something so perfectly you that his face softens before he can stop it.

◆ “I love you,” he says.

No flourish. No dramatic pause. Just the sentence, placed exactly where it belongs.

You go still.

He watches you carefully, but there is no fear in his face. Not because the answer does not matter, but because he has already chosen the truth of it.

◆ “Say it again,” you say.

His expression warms.

◆ “I love you.”

When you kiss him, his hands come to your waist with quiet certainty, and for once, he is the one who loses the thread of what he meant to say next.

You smile against his mouth. “Distracted?”

His fingers tighten slightly. “Very.”

◆ Suguru in love is still Suguru. Still composed. Still sharp. Still capable of unsettling calm. He can be stubborn, exacting, quietly severe. He can turn pain into philosophy if no one stops him. He can mistake control for peace when he is afraid of what wanting might make him.

But he is also more tender than people realize. More attentive than he announces. More playful than his reputation suggests. More affected by your trust than he knows how to admit.

With you, he becomes specific.

◆ The light lowered before you ask. The tea made correctly. The exit offered without spectacle. The silence respected. The touch intentional. The truth returned to, even when elegance would be easier. Your curls freed carefully from his bracelet. Your rings kept in a dish he pretends was not bought for you. Your music listened to until he can hear its architecture. Your quiet learned in all its different rooms.

◆ Geto Suguru does not love by accident.

◆ He chooses. He observes. He adjusts. He stays close enough to know the difference between peace and silence, between needing space and being left alone, between being touched and being held correctly.

◆ His love is not flashy. It does not announce itself from the doorway. It enters quietly, removes its shoes, remembers where everything belongs, and stays.

◆ Geto Suguru loves you the way he does everything: with intention, with patience, with both eyes open.

◆ And once he has chosen you, being loved by him starts to feel less like being swept away and more like being understood down to the grain.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

and before anyone asks: yes, the dish was for you. no, he will never say that out loud. the counter will keep its secret.

“See?” you whisper, rising to your feet. “I told you. Piece of cake.”

“Yeah, yeah, just get inside,” Yoongi grumbles. “We won’t have long before the backup alarm goes off. I’m sure they have one in place somewhere.”

You exchange a quick look with the others, Jae already unclipping his harness, Mina tugging her gloves into place, and give a small, sure nod. Team choreography. No wasted moves. No heroics. You hook the line, test the tension, then cut the circle of glass cleanly, the cutter whispering like a knife through silk.

One by one you drop. Gravity swallows you for a breath, then the floor rushes up. Marble cool and unforgiving beneath your boots. Statues stand like witnesses; their blank faces are a chorus of stone.

“West wing,” Jae whispers. “Two portraits. Crate’s in the northwest storeroom. Move.”

You glide through aisles of gilded frames and placards. Labels in neat serif type that mean nothing to the work of your hands. Flashlight beams slice at dust motes; your reflection in a display case skims past, impossible and blurred. The thrill flares sharp and hot behind your ribs. You breathe steady. You work fast.

Everything goes according to plan.

Until it doesn’t.

You’re halfway through securing the last of the crates when the sharp echo of footsteps slices through the silence. Not the quick, coordinated rhythm of your team’s boots, these are heavier, slower, deliberate.

Your head snaps up. “Yoongi,” you whisper into your earpiece. “Tell me that’s you.”

Static. Then a low curse. “Negative. Security must’ve doubled their night staff. Get out of there. Now.”

You scan the shadowy exhibits, pulse racing. “No time. Split up. Grab what you can and head to the van. I’ll meet you.”

“Y/N—”

But you’ve taken off, moving fast and quiet down the nearest hall. Glass cases and marble busts blur in your peripheral as you slip into an unmarked door and shut it behind you.

The air inside is colder, heavier. Like the room hasn’t been touched in months. Dust motes drift lazily through the narrow beam of your flashlight as you pace the room softly, eyes sweeping over the walls for any sign of cameras or motion sensors. Nothing.

Once you’re sure it’s safe, you let out a shaky breath and slide down the nearest wall, the adrenaline slowly bleeding out of your system. The edge of your jacket catches on something behind you, tugging a heavy drape loose. It crumples to the ground in a cloud of dust, sending you into a fit of coughing.

“Shit,” you hiss, waving a hand in front of your face.

When the air clears, your flashlight catches on what the fabric had been hiding.

A painting, regal and strangely pristine compared to everything else in the archive.